THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


OF 


POEMS. 


BY 


S.  S.  &  H.  G.LUCE. 


TEEMPEALEAU : 

CHARLES  A.  LEITH,  PUBLISHER. 
1876. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

INTRODUCTORY    .  3 
MY  NATIVE  STATE    .                                              .5 

THE  VILLAGE  DOCTOR  7 

THE  FOREST  GRAVE  .   11 

THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAT       ...                  .  19 

DECORRA       .         .  .28 

WINTER  MUSINGS       .-                                             .  31 

THE  MILLER          .  .  34 
THE  TEACHER    .                                                       .36 

LINES  ON  TABLE  ROCK     .  39 

GALESVILLE  UNIVERSITY      .....  42 

SPRING-TIME  .        .         .         .         .         .         .  44 

DOLLARS  ........  46 

THE  WANDERER'S  SONG  OF  HOME     .         .         .  .  48 

WHAT  SHALL  WE  DRINK     .....  49 

BURNS'  BIRTH  DAY        .         .         .         .         .  .57 

PROLOGUE  ...         i         ....  53 

EIPILOGUE  FOR  SAME     .         .         .         .         .  .55 

EIPOLOGUE      .......  56 

THE  DYING  SOLDIER'S  SOLILOQUY    .         .         .  .58 

764054 


GROWING  OLD  .......  <il) 

PIONEER'S  GREETING     .          .          .          .          .  .   (>3 

VACANT  GRAVE           ......  (15 

WINTER  PETS       ...          .         .         .         .  .    (57 

CONVICT             .                            ....  70 

FAREWELL  TO  WINTER  .          .          .          .          .  .78 

ALBUM  OF  LOVE        ......  75 

HORACE  GREELEY          .          .          .          .          .  .75 

GIFT  .          .          .          .          .          .          .77 

LAY  HER  QUIETLY  TO  REST  .          .          .          .  .78 

BIRTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR           .         .         .         .  .80 

THUNDER  SHOWER           .         .          .          .          .  .81 

REMINISCENCE  .          .          .          .          .          .          .83 

To  BOREAS    .                   .          .          .          .          .  .85 

OLD  HOMESTEAD         ......  80 

UNDER  THE  PINE  TREE  .          .          .          .          .  .89 

OLD  SPINNING  WHEEL                 ....  90 

UNCLE  BILL  .         .          .          .          .          .          .  .92 

'LiSH  BROWN     .......  93 

MY  UNMARRIED  AUNT  .          .....   96 

A  LEAF  FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  GALESVILLE          .  98 

SLAVE'S  SOLILOQUY                 .          .          .          .  10*2 

SONG .  105 

DEFEAT  OF  FREEDOM.                    •  107 


DECISION  OE  JUDGE  TANEY  .....  109 

THE  UNDERGROUND  RAILROAD          .        ...  .111 

BURIAL  OP  THOMAS  GARRETT       ....  112 

THE  T—      -  GUARDS     . " 114 

CHARGE  OF  THE  BLACK  HORSE  CAVALRY       .         .  116 

FREMONT 118 

NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING    '   .        .        *        .         .  121 

MUSINGS         ...        .        .        ...  .    124 

RAISING  THE  OLD  FLAG  AT  CHARLESTON      .        .  126 

A  LEGEND  OF  SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH    .        .        .  .  128 

CENTENNIAL     «...        .       ,.        .        .  144 

POEMS  BY  MRS.  H.  G.  LUCE        .        .        .        .  149 

THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS      .        .                 .  .    149 

SPIRIT  VOICES         .        .         .         .  •       .        .  152 

LINES         .        ...       .        -.,....-       .        .  .    155 

THE  NIGHT  MY  MOTHER  DIED     -   .        .         .  157 

"LITTLE  JENNIE"        ......  159 

THE  MARTYR  .         ...        ,        .         .  161 

SIMPLICITY •      .        .  164 

MAY  MORN       .        .        .        .        .         .         .  165 

HEART'S  SORROW          .                 .                 ,  .   167 

LITTLE  DOLLIE       , 170 

MUSINGS    .  171 


A  MEMORIAL 173 

HUGH  MILLER .  175 

A  WINTER  SCENE 177 

BETTER  THAN  GOLD 179 

A  WELCOME 180 

PETER  PARLEY    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  181 

IN  THE  SUNSHINE          ......  188 

MEMORIES       .......  184 

UPWARD 187 

IN  MEMORIAM  .         .         .         ,         .         .  189 

EEMEMBRANCE      .         .         .         .         .  .  191 

THANKSGIVING           ......  193 

MORE  BOYS  FOR  THE  WAR 196 

GRATING  CORN 197 

THE  COMING  MAN 199 

THE  SOLDIERS  OF  TREMPEALEAU  COUNTY  .         .  '201 

THE  RECORD 204 

COMING  WEST  206 


INTRODUCTORY. 

\  I  Te  court  no  critic's  voice  or  pen  ; 

-  We  only  seek  a  partial  ear 
For  simple  lines  that  now  and  then 
Have  served  a  lonely  hour  to  cheer. 

We  could  not  hope  with  pebbles  rude 
To  vie  with  diamonds  rich  and  rare ; 

We  would  not  rougher  strains  intrude 
Where  soft  sweet  music  tills  the  air ; 

But  oft  there  creeps  within  the  breast 
A  wish  that  when  this  life  shall  end, 

Among  the  few  we  love  the  best, 
The  few  who  truly  call  us  friend, 

To  leave  some  simple  work  or  word, 
Some  token,  trifling  though  it  be, 

Not  for  its  worth  alone  preferred, 
But  tribute  dear  to  memory. 

GALESVILLE,  Wis.  AUG.  16,  1876. 


POEMS 


BY 


SAMUEL  SLAYTON  LUCE. 


MY  NATIVE  STATE. 

TTermont,  thy  hills  and  vales  are  fair, 

Thy  mountains  rear  their  tops  on  high ; 
Clear  are  thy  streams  and  pure  thy  air, 
And  softly  blue  thy  summer  sky. 

E'en  when  rude  Winter's  blast  is  drear, 
And  desolation  reigns  profound, — 
When  naught  without  our  hearts  can  cheer, 
From,  mountain,  plain  and  streams  around, 


MY  NATIVE  STATE. 


Vermont,  thou  hast  thy  pleasures  then, 
Around  the  social  lire-side  hearth, 
When  heart  to  heart  responds  again, 
In  innocent  and  joyous  mirth. 

But  0,  when  Spring  sweet  Spring  has  spread 
Her  verdant  carpet  on  the  sod- 
When  flowers  their  richest  fragrance  shed, 
And  birds  chant  forth  a  song  to  God — 

When  gentle  zephyrs  pass  along, 
And  through  the  boughs  of  every  tree 
Breathe  magic  whisperings  of  song — 
'Tis  then  Vermont  we  worship  thee  ! 


THE  VILLAGE  DOCTOR 


I  see  him  still,  as  erst  of  yore, 
With  furrowed  cheek,  and  whitened  brow ; 
Though  he's  been  dead  of  years  a  score, 
I  see  him  stand  before  me  now. 


I  seem  to  see  his  withered  form 

Bestride  his  faithful  white-faced  mare, 

With  old  brown  saddle-bags  behind, 
Whose  odor  'twas  a  grief  to  bear. 


With  chronic  cough  I  hear  him  pass — 
He  digs  his  steed  with  vigorous  heel, 

Whose  callous  sides,  from  daily  thumps, 
Had  long  since  lost  the  power  to  feel. 


The  constant  grin  upon  his  face — 
His  light  "te  he!"  at  human  pain, 

As  oft  he  wrenched  the  offending  tooth, 
Our  memory  ever  will  retain. 


THE  VILLAGE  DOCTOR. 


But  deeply  down  within  his  breast, 
Beneath  a  mail  like  Milan  steel, 

'Twas  said  by  those  who  knew  him  best, 
"The  doctor  has  a  heart  to  feel." 


'Twas  in  the  old  Green  Mountain  State, 
'Mid  deep,  dread  winter's  drifting  snow, 

The  evening  hour  was  waxing  late, 
Some  forty  years  or  more  ago. 

We  sat  around  the  ample  hearth, 
Where  maple  logs  were  blazing  bright ; 

Glad  songs  arose,  and  social  mirth, 
Upon  that  dismal  winter  night. 

The  storm-cloud  hung  on  Mansfield's  brow— 
The  wind  blew  piercingly  and  chill ; 

Fierce  through  the  leafless  branches  shrieked, 
And  roared  along  the  fir-clad  hill. 

The  deep'ning  snow,  that  all  day  long 

Had  fallen  silently  and  fast, 
Now  densely  filled  the  frosty  air, 

And  piled  in  drifts  before  the  blast. 


THE  VILLAGE  DOCTOR. 

And  still  we  sat — the  hours  sped — 

The  storm  increased  with  fearful  might ; — 

"I  hope,"  our  tender  mother  said, 
"No  one's  abroad  this  dreadful  night." 

Our  mother's  voice  had  hardly  ceased, 
When  sudden  through  the  opening  door, 

O'er  drifts,  the  quaint  old  doctor  sprung, 
And  forward  fell  upon  the  floor. 

His  brow  was  crusted  o'er  with  ice, 
And  crisp  and  frozen  was  his  cheek ; 

His  limbs  were  paralyzed  with  cold  ; 
For  once,  the  doctor  could  not  speak. 

With  genial  warmth,  and  tender  care, 
He  soon  revived,  and  said :  "Come  Bill, 

Be  kind  enough  to  get  my  mare, — 
I  must  reach  Martin's,  on  the  hill." 

Then  on  again,  o'er  trackless  snow, 

Against  the  biting  winter  blast, 
Without  the  hope  of  worldly  gain, 

Through  mountain  drifts,  the  doctor  passed. 

2 


10  THE  VILLAGE  DOCTOR. 

Far  up  the  winding  mountain  road, 
Through  forest  dark  and  blinding  snow, 

He  reached  the  desolate  abode 
Of  sickness,  poverty  and  woe. 

Long  years  have  past ;  yet  oft  I  ask, 
As  howls  the  tempest  in  its  might, 

While  sitting  by  the  evening  tire, 

"What  faithful  doctor  rides  to-night  ?" 


Yes,  faithful ;  though  full  well  I  know 
The  world  is  sparing  of  its  praise  ; 

And  these  self-sacriticing  men 
But  seldom  tempt  the  poet's  lays. 

And  yet,  I  trust,  when  at  the  last, 
They  leave  the  world  of  human  strife, 

Like  him  "who  loved  his  fellow  men," 
Their  names  shall  grace  the  "Book  of  Life. 

Jan.  1871. 


THE  FOEEST  GRAVE. 

A  TALE  OF  VERMONT  IN  1814. 

I  am  dreaming,  I  am  dreaming, 
*~  Of  a  valley  far  away, 
Where  the  sunlight  faintly  streaming, 
Through  the  birchen  leaves  doth  stray, 

And  on  either  side,  the  mountain 

Rises  heavenward  in  pride, 
While  beneath  its  base,  a  fountain 

Hurries  on  its  sparkling  tide. 

Far  from  human  habitation 
Is  that  wild  sequestered  spot ; 

There  the  wild  deer  bounds  in  freedom, 
And  the  hunter  scares  him  not. — 


There  the  birds  among  the  branches 
Carol  forth  their  happy  song, 

And  the  eagle  from  his  eyrie 
Proudly  overlooks  the  throng. 


12  THE  FOREST  GRAVE. 


Lithesome  leaps  the  nimble  squirrel 
Far  removed  from  human  ken. 

And  the  drumming  of  the  partridge 
Vibrates  through  the  mountain  glen. 

There,  where  slender  birchen  branches 
Weave  above  a  tangled  screen — 

Where  in  June  the  searching  sun-light 
Scarcely  finds  its  way  between. 

Once  the  woodman's  ax  resounded, 
And  the  huge  primeval  tree, 

That  hath  stood  the  storms  of  ages, 
Bows  at  last  to  man's  decree. 


One  by  one  each  stately  monarch, 
Yields  himself  to  human  sway, 

Till  the  dark  and  solemn  forest 
Opens  to  the  light  of  day. 

Soon  a  rude,  uncomely  cottage 
Eose  within  the  opening  glade  ; — 

With  the  logs  the  walls  were  fashioned, 
With  the  bark  the  roof  was  made. 


THE  FOREST  GRAVE.  18 


Time  sped  on,  and  when  the  Autumn 
Strewed  the  many  tinted  leaves, 

And  the  laborer's  toils  requited 
With  abundant  golden  sheaves, 

Came  a  lovely,  beauteous  maiden 
In  the  woodman's  cot  to  dwell ; 

She,  the  sweet  and  gentle  Alice, 
Wed  the  woodman,  Thomas  Bell. 

He  was  like  the  sturdy  maple, 

Stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  limb  ; 

She,  the  slender  vine  whose  tendrils 
Clung  confidingly  to  him. 

He  possessed  a  manly  bearing 
And  a  nobleness  of  soul ; — 

She,  those  sweet  and  gentle  virtues 
Where  the  Graces  hold  control. 


Kindly  both  endowed  by  nature — 
Both  were  versed  in  human  lore ; — 

Both  were  poor,  or  wealthy  only 
In  the  mutual  love  they  bore. 


14  THE  FOEEST  GRAVE. 

It  was  winter,  piercing  winter  ;— 

On  the  mountain  hung  the  cloud- 
Through  the  forest  shrieked  the  storm-blast, 
Howling  round  the  cottage  loud. 

Up  against  the  scanty  window 

High  is  piled  the  snowy  drift ; 
Through  the  crevice  of  the  door-way 

Fast  the  sleety  crystals  sift. 

To  the  blast,  the  mountain  fir-tree 
Freely  shook  its  mantle  white, 

While  the  owl  within  its  branches 
Wildly  screeched  the  livelong  night. 

While  the  storm  without  is  raging, 
All  is  peace  and  love  within ; — 

What  heed  they  the  cold  or  storm-blast— 
What  care  they  for  nature's  din. 

On  the  hearth  huge  logs  of  maple 

Send  abroad  a  ruddy  gleam, 
Making  all  aglow  and  cheerful, 

Walls  around  and  naked  beam. 


THE  FOREST  GRAVE.  15 


He  has  cast  aside  his  labors, 

Noble  tiller  of  the  soil ! 
She  has  spread  the  inviting  table 

With  the  fruits  of  honest  toil. 


Should  you  ask  me,  gentle  reader, 

Where  true  happiness  doth  dwell, 
I  should  point  you  to  the  cottage 
Of  the  woodman,  Thomas  Bell. 


Time  sped  on— the  glorious  spring-time 
Spread  her  varied  beauty  round ; 

Earth  rejoiced  in  floral  decking — 
Air  was  resonant  with  sound. 


On  the  hill-side—on  the  mountain 
Where  the  fir  and  hemlock  grew- 

By  the  brooklet  and  the  fountain — 
All  put  on  a  joyous  hue. 

And  the  husbandman  rejoices 
As  he  scatters  wide  the  grain, 

Listening  to  the  happy  voices 
Mingled  in  harmonious  strain. 


16  THE  FOREST  GRAVE. 

And  the  glowing  soul  of  woman 
Drinks  new  life  from  earth  and  air 

What  to  man  seems  poor  and  common, 
Her  fine  senses  counteth  fair. 

Thus  did  Alice  view  each  How'ret 
As  of  nature's  God  a  part ; 

E'en  the  simplest  shrub  or  fern-leaf. 
Thrilled  with  joy  her  grateful  heart. 


It  was  summer,  gorgeous  summer- 
Where  once  rose  the  stately  trees, 

And  the  wild  beasts  roved  in  freedom, 
Grain  is  waving  in  the  breeze  ; 

And  the  cottage  rude,  uncomely, 

Now  bedecked  with  vines  and  flowers, 

Tells  how  hands  of  love  and  beauty 
While  away  the  passing  hours. 

But  when  came  again  the  autumn, 
Shadows  dark  and  gloomy  fell 

O'er  the  life,  the  cloudless  sunlight, 
Of  the  lovely  Alice  Bell. 


THE  FOREST  GRAVE.  17 


It  was  when  the  British  cannon 
Waked  the  echoes  of  Champlain, 

On  the  bloody  field  of  Plattsburg, 
Thomas  Bell  lay  with  the  slain. 

First  his  country's  call  to  answer, 
With  a  soul  unknown  to  fear. 

He  had  staked  his  all  for  freedom — 
He  had  paid  the  price  most  dear. 

Sunk  the  heart  of  gentle  Alice — 
Sunk  her  form  upon  the  floor, 

As  she  heard  the  dreadful  tidings  :— 
She  will  smile  on  earth  no  more  ! 


As  the  tree  whose  heart  is  blighted 
And  no  mortal  hand  can  save, 

So  the  form  of  beauteous  Alice 
Fast  descended  to  the  grave. 

YA  hen  again  the  storms  of  winter 
Spread  the  mantle  white  o'er  earth, 

Shrieking  round  the  woodman's  cottage, 
Cold  and  cheerless  was  the  hearth. 
8 


IS  TJIK  F015KST  (illAVK. 

When  again  the  joyful  spring-time 
Peeked  with  flowers  the  lonely  spot, 

She  who  loved  their  simple  beauty 
Slept  beneath  and  saw  them  not. 


1  am  dreaming  !  1  am  dreaming  ! 

Of  that  valley  far  away. 
Where  the  sun-rays  faintly  streaming 

Through  the  birchen  branches  stray 

Of  the  rudely  lettered  headstone 
That  the  mournful  tale  doth  tell : — 

There  amid  the  solemn  forest 
Sleeps  the  lovely  Alice  Bell, 

Marcit,  18(jo. 


THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY.  * 

/  \  f  the  many  remembrances  strongly  impressed, 
If  there's  one  now  remaining  more  fresh  than  the 

rest, 

'Tis  of  an  old  trapper,  scarce  "five-feet  and-three," 
Who  was  called  "The  Old  Hunter  of  Wild  Chateaugay." 
A  wierd  little  man,  with  twinkling  blue  eyes, 
Whose  stories  in  no  way  compared  with  his  size. 

In  long  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
This  hunter  was  much  in  my  father's  employ ; 
And  oft,  when  the  storm  drove  him  in  from  the  farm, 
With  cider  in  mug  on  the  hearth  smoking  warm, 
With  long  potent  draughts,  inspiration  to  lend, 
His  tales  would  "just  make  my  hair  stand  on  end !" 
Such  marvels  of  wonder  and  wisdom  combined 
Had  a  magical  charm  for  a  juvenile  mind. 

His  shot  was  unerring  at  wild  deer  or  bear ; 
E'en  the  far  seeing  Reynard  escaped  not  his  snare. 
And  the  wise  old  philosopher-trout  of  the  brook, 
That  defied  all  the  boys,  seemed  to  take  to  his  hook. 

*  Local  Pronunciation,—  "JShat-ta-gee," 


20  THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY. 

And  the  timid  wild  game,  that  take  daily  naps. 
And  wander  at  night,  fell  into  his  traps. 
In  short,  all  the  imps  of  old  Satan  himself. 
Known  as  witches,  or  wizards,  or  elpies,  or  elf, — 
Whatever  the  caste  or  their  calling  might  be, 
Could  not  fool  this  Old  Hunter  of  Wild  Chateaugay. 
"For,"  said  he.  "if  I  fail  with  rny  powder  and  lead, 
I  substitute  silver  for  bullets  instead." 
"See  here,  Uncle  Zenas," — I  said  with  a  smile,— 
"My  mother  says  witches  are  now  out  of  style. 
Though  people  were  cruelly  burned  in  old  time. 
On  such  charge,  'tis  now  counted  foulest  of  crime." 
"They  may  tell  what  they  please,  "Uncle  Zenas  would 

say;— 

"I  have  seen  many  witches  myself  in  my  day. 
And  I'll  tell  you  a  story,  that  you  too  may  see 
That  witches  are,  now, — just  as  they  used  to  be." 


"I  had  been  out  all  day,  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 
And  following  sharp  on  the  trail  of  a  deer : 
But  night  coming  on,  I  gave  up  the  beat. 
I  was  tired ;  and,  worse,  I  had  nothing  to  eat. 
I  knew  where  some  patridges  sure  could  be  found. 


THE   111  NTKK  OF  CHATEATGAY.  '21 

And  some  forty  rods  brought  me  oil  to  the  ground. 

Well,  there,  sure  enough,  in  a  sapling  birch  tree, 

Sat  some  beautiful  birds,  in  number  just  three. 

An  excellent  chance,  any  hunter  would  say, 

So  I  brought  up  rny  rifle  and  tired  away. 

You  may  judge  my  surprise  when  I  looked  for  my  bird  ; 

There  she  sat,  in  the  tree ;  not  a  feather  had  stirred. 

1  fired  and  loaded,  and  loaded  and  tired, 

With  no  better  success,  until  heartily  tired. 

'  Some  devil  is  in  it,'  I  said,  'for  this  gun 

Is  as  true  to  its  aim  as  the  rays  of  the  sun.' 

A  thought  struck  me  then  and  1  put  it  in  force'— 

I  bent  up  a  shilling  1  had  in  my  purse  : 

Put  it  into  my  gun,  and  says  I,  '  now,  my  dame. 

We'll  see  who  is  mistress, — we'll  see  who  is  game.' 

I  fired  ;  such  a  thundering  you  never  have  heard  ! 

Such  screaming  sure  never  yet  came  from  a  bird ! 

1  camped  without  supper,  be  sure,  on  that  night ; 

Slept  sound,  and  awoke  at  the  dawning  of  light. 

The  deer  I  had  followed  I  soon  found  and  shot. 

And  my  breakfast  of  vension  was  soon  smoking  hot. 

Since  that  time  1  have  not  been  troubled  at  all 

To  bring  down  my  game  with  a  good  leaden  ball. 

But  Old  Mother  Simpson, down  under  the  hill, 


22  THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY. 

Was  taken  that  evening  most  shockingly  ill. 
'Twas  said  she  had  fallen  and  broken  an  arm ; 
But  /  know  very  well  I  had  broken  the  charm 
She  had  practiced  on  me,  (she  had  done  it  before,) 
And  a  shilling  was  cheap  to  rub  out  the  old  score !" 
He  suddenly  paused,  and  raised  to  his  lip 
The  foaming  brown  mug, — took  a  long,  steady  sip ; 
Set  it  down,  and  looked  thoughtful, — his  eyes  down 
ward  cast, 

As  if  he  were  busy  with  thoughts  of  the  past. 
Soon  his  cheek  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  warming 

again, 
His  tongue  seemed  to  move  in  a  livelier  strain : 

"I  had  been  on  a  hunt,"  said  he, 

In  the  old  woods  of  Chateaugay. 

The  day  was  sultry ;  not  a  breeze 

To  stir  the  leaves  upon  the  trees. 

For  hours  I  followed  on  a  trail, 

Through  tangled  brush,  and  swampy  swale, 

An  animal, — but  what  the  kind 

As  yet  I  had  not  quite  divined ; 

Its  foot-prints  on  the  marshy  land 

Were  broader  than  my  outspread  hand. 


THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY.  28 

I'd  seen  some  smaller  game  at  large, 

But  none  to  tempt  the  hunter's  charge  ; — 

For,  in  pursuit  of  deer  or  bear, 

The  gun's  report  would  tend  to  scare 

The  nobler  game — drive  them  away. 

And  waste  the  labors  of  a  day. 

Twas  growing  late,  and  in  the  west 

The  sun  was  sinking  to  his  rest, 

Where  on  the  far  horison's  rim 

A  cloud  was  stretching,  black  and  grim, 

Low,  muttering  thunder,  from  afar, 

Portended  elemental  war. 

And  wearied  with  the  day's  long  tramp, 

I  sought  a  place  to  build  my  camp. 

I  crossed  a  stream,  that  I  might  reach 

The  shelter  of  a  sturdy  beech. 

I'd  seen  the  oak  oft  cleft  in  twain, 

And  rent  the  hemlock's  spiral  grain  ; 

The  pine  that  soars  so  high  and  proud 

Invites  the  lightning  from  the  cloud. 

The  beech  tree,  with  its  smooth,  green  bark, 

Alone  repels  the  electric  spark. 

For  well  I  knew,  ere  morning  came, 

The  black'ning  sky  would  be  aflame. 

With  bark  to  shelter  overhead, 


24  THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY. 

And  boughs  beneath,  to  serve  as  bed. 
With  cone,  and  knots  of  resinous  pine, 
Arnid  the  darkening  gloom  to  shine. 
To  cheer  the  night,  and  keep  at  bay 
The  wild,  ferocious  beasts  of  prey, 
My  scanty  meal  with  haste  I  made. 
And  on  the  hemlock  boughs  I  laid 
My  weary  limbs  ;  slept  sweet  and  sound, 
Amid  the  solitude  profound. 

You  deem  it  strange  that  I  could  sleep 
Within  the  forest  dark  and  deep,— 
Removed  from  human  aid  so  wide. 
Where  dangers  lurk  011  eveiy  side.— 
With  gathering  cloud  to  sweep  in  power 
Of  wrathful  tempest  h?  an  hour. 
Go  ask  the  hunter,  whose  dark  hair 
Grew  white  amid  the  hunter's  fare  ; 
His  gun  his  friend,  the  earth  his  bed, 
The  sky  his  canopy  o'erheacl ; 
His  heart  to  nature  waxes  warm, — 
He  loves  her  in  her  wildest  form. 


THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY.  25 

How  long  I  slept,  I  could  not  tell ; 

I  woke,  as  by  a  magic  spell ! 

The  rain  was  pouring  in  a  flood,— 

The  wind  roared  wildly  through  the  wood  : 

And  by  the  transient  lightning's  flash 

I  saw  the  raging  torrents  dash 

In  madness  down  to  join  the  stream, 

Reflected  in  the  vivid  gleam. 

My  fire  was  but  a  feeble  spark, 

That  made  the  darkness  seem  more  dark, 

This  was  no  novel  scene  to  me, 

In  the  old  wqods  of  Chateaugay. 

Full  many  a  time  before  I'd  viewed 
Bough  nature  in  her  wildest  mood. 
But  something  strange,— it  was  not  fear- 
Seemed  whispering,  'There  is  danger  near!' 
And  rising  up  with  piercing  gaze, 
I  saw  amid  the  lightning's  blaze 
A  sight  that  might  well  give  alarm— 
A  couchant  panther's  dreaded  form  ! 
Upon  the  log  that  spanned  the  stream 
I  saw  his  fiery  eyeballs  gleam, 
And  scarce  a  hundred  yards  away, 
Intently  viewing  me  as  prey  ! 
4 


26  THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY. 

I  waked  the  brands  that,  burning  low, 
Gave  but  a  faint  and  lurid  glow. 
I  knew  ere  morning  came  again 
That  darkness  in  the  camp  would  reign. 
I  viewed  my  rifle  then  to  know 
That  it  was  dry,  and  sure  to  go ; 
Unsheathed  my  old  long  hunting  knife 
For  use,  if  forced  to  deadly  strife  ; 
Then  lying  low,  to  catch  the  light 
Upon  the  trusty  barrel's  sight, 
I  took  a  careful,  steady  aim, 
As  one  who  seldom  missed  his  game. 
I  fired,  and  held  my  breath  to  hear 
What  sound  should  next  salute  my  ear, 
'Twas  silent  as  the  grave  !—  ah,  no  ! 
A  splash  was  in  the  stream  below. 

Next  morn,  before  the  rising  sun, 
I  went  to  see  what  I  had  done. 
The  log  was  spattered  o'er  with  blood ; 
All  else  had  vanished  in  the  flood ; 
But,  following  down  the  swollen  tide, 
Found  in  some  alders  by  its  side, 


THE  HUNTER  OF  CHATEAUGAY,  27 

A  panther  of  the  largest  size, 
With  bullet  hole  between  his  eyes." 

How  fleet  have  sped  the  passing  years, 
Since  these  tales  charmed  my  boyish  ears  ! 
And  he  who  told  them  with  such  zest, 
Passed  long  since  to  his  liiial  rest. 
With  knife  and  powder,  shot  and  ball, 
His  gun  hangs  resting  'gainst  the  wall. 
And  those  old  woods,  so  well  beloved, 
Where  with  a  hunter's  pride  he  roved, — 
The  scene  of  many  a  fearful  crime, 
That  happened  in  the  early  time, — 
Some  that  are  yet  not  understood, 
And  others  cancelled  blood  for  blood. — 
Now  yield  to  utilizing  hand 
That  marks  the  progress  of  our  land. 
The  whistle's  shriek,  and  thundering  train 
Awake  the  rocky,  wild  domain ; 
While  sleeps,  from  worldly  trouble  free, 
The  Hunter  of  old  Chateaugay ! 


DECORRA. 


^1  Inhere  art  thou,  0  chief  Decorra? 

*  And  thy  warriors,  where  are  they '? 
Sleep  they  on  the  field  of  glory — 
Are  they  scattered  far  away  ? 


Where  once  rose  the  sheltering  wigwam 
Scarce  a  trace  doth  now  remain ; 

Rank  the  weeds  above  the  cornfield, 
Where  erst  waved  the  golden  grain. 

But  thy  peak  still  heaven-ward  rises, 
First  to  catch  the  morning  ray ; 

Proud  o'erlooking  hill  and  valley, 
And  broad  streams  that  wind  away. 

O'er  its  form  so  high  and  hoary, 
Storms  of  centuries  have  swept ; 

And  the  subtle  fires  of  Heaven 

Scathless  down  its  sides  have  leap'd. 


DECORRA.  29 

But  thy  signal  fires  no  longer 

From  the  summit  gleam  afar, 
{Summoning  thy  braves  around  thee 

For  the  chase  or  bloody  war. 

A 

They  are  dead  or  widely  scattered, 

Thou  could'st  only  save  thy  life 
By  thy  fleetness  and  thy  cunning, 

From  the  Sioux'  sharp  scalping-knife. 

Thou,  in  days  of  border  warfare 

Oft  thy  timely  aid  did'st  lend, 
Leading  forth  thy  braves  to  battle 

Proved  thyself  the  white  man's  friend. 

On  thy  peak  I  stand,  Decorra, 

And  a  fairy  landscape  sweet, 
Sparkling  in  its  sun-lit  glory, 

Lies  in  beauty  at  my  feet. 


Gorgeous  palaces  are  floating 
On  the  Mississippi's  tide — 

Once  the  "light  canoe"  was  only 
O'er  its  waters  seen  to  glide. 


30  DECOKRA. 

Lone  Decorra  !  sad  Decorra  ! 

Cold  and  cheerless  is  thy  lot — 
Smoke  is  curling  in  the  valley 

From  the  farmer's  peaceful  cot. 

And  the  plow-share  turns  the  furrow 
From  the  Indian  burial  mound, 

Leaving  oft  his  bones  to  bleachen 
On  the  once-loved  hunting  ground. 

Last  of  those  proud  chiefs,  Decorra, 
Who  once  roamed  this  pleasant  land, 

Ever  thy  eventful  story 
On  historic  page  shah1  stand. 

Galesi'ille,  Wis.,  1858. 


WINTER  MUSINGS. 


T  T  p  the  serpentine  Winooski, 
U  Sweeps  the  storm-blastjwild^and  high  ; 
Shrieking  through  the  leafless  tree-tops, 
'Neath  a  freezing  winter  sky. 

Hushed  the  notes  of  warbling  song-birds — 
Gone  the  breath  of  fragrant  flowers — 

Skips  no  more  the  lithesome  squirrel, 
In  the  desolated  bowers. 


Pile,  pile  high  the  sparkling  wood-fire  ' 

Till  we  feel  the  genial  glow  ! 
Bring  the  books,  the  pens  and  paper, 

Let  the  whistling  north  wind  blow  ! 

There  are  pleasures,  heartfelt  pleasures, 
Round  a  cheerful  winter  hearth, 

When  the  soul  with  soul  communeth, 
Free  from  care  and  boisterous  mirth. 


WINTER  MUSINGS. 


There  are  pleasures,  nobler  pleasures, 
Than  amid  the  ball-room's  throng ; 

Sweeter  strains  than  rattling  dice-box, 
Or  the  Bacchanalian  song. 


There's  a  gem  within  our  keeping 
Richer  far  than  golden  dust ; 

As  the  wind  our  life  is  fleeting — 
Prove  we  true  unto  the  trust  V 


Life  should  be  a  life  of  labor, 

Heart  and  hand  should  know  no  rest, 
While  the  heel  of  stern  oppression 

Grinds  the  necks  of  the  oppressed. 

While  the  Demon  of  the  wine-cup 

Stalks  abroad  with  poisonous  breath ; 

As  the  withering,  blasting  Upas, 
Deals  he  forth  the  fire  of  death. 


Oh  !  the  heart  of  hapless  woman 
When  he  plies  his  subtle  art  !— 

Colder  than  the  freezing  north-blast, 
Is  the  winter  of  that  heart ! 


WINTER  MUSINGS.  83 

Onward !  then,  for  Freedom,  Temperance  ! 

On  for  virtue  ever  bright  !— 
Soul  and  pen,  and  voice  forever, 

Battling  boldly  for  the  right. 

Waterlmry,  Vt.,  Jan.  1851. 


THE  MILLER. 


miller  was  young,  the  miller  was  fair, 
And  kindly  the  light  of  his  clear  blue  eye, 
With  flowing  masses  of  light  brown  hair, 
And  a  forehead  broad  and  white  and  high. 

He'd  a  pleasant  word  and  a  frank  good  will, 
A  cheery  way  and  a  winning  smile 

For  the  farmer  boy  who  came  to  mill 
O'er  manv  a  long  and  weary  mile. 


The  miller  was  stout  of  heart  and  limb ; 

Was  modeled  on  Nature's  noblest  plan  ; 
The  bags  of  corn  were  as  chaff  to  him, 

He  striked  the  measure  with  honest  hand. 


He  leaped  on  the  leyer  and  pinned  it  down, 

And  loosed  the  power  of  flood  below  ; 
The  stone  went  whizzing  round  and  round  ; 
The  meal  came  forth  with  golden  flow. 


THE  MILLER.  35 

While  the  mill  so  patiently  ground  the  grain, 
The  miller,  (I  seem  to  hear  him  yet,) 
J  )elighted  my  boyish  ears  with  a  strain 

Poured  forth  from  his  wonderful  clarionet. 


And  when  the  mill  its  task  had  done, 
And  each  kind  in  its  separate  sack, 

The  bags  adjusted  one  by  one, 
Upon  the  old  farm  horse's  back, 

He  kindly  lifted  me  into  my  seat, 
And  gave  me  a  word  of  cheer  and  praise, 

While  he  chid  the  village  boys  so  meet, 
That  laughed  at  my  bashful,  rural  ways. 

\ 
The  stream  runs  on,  and  the  mill  is  there, 

But  the  kindly  miller  my  boyhood  knew 
Is  long  since  gone,  I  know  not  where, 

With  his  honest  hand  and  his  heart  so  true. 


THE  TEACHER. 


Boiler  o'er  life's  weary  way — 
-*-  Faithful  in  a  noble  cause — 
Plodding  on  from  day  to  day. 

Careless  of  the  world's  applause  ; — 
Who  exalts  the  Teacher's  name  ? 
Who  shall  chronicle  his  fame  ? 


Poets  sing  of  warriors  brave, 
Skilled  to  slay  their  fellow  man 

Where  the  flags  of  freedom  wave, 
Leading  in  the  battle's  van. 

Who  exalts  the  Teacher's  name  ? 

Who  shall  sing  the  Teacher's  fame  ? 

Poets  sing  of  statesmen  sage, 
Men  who  win  the  world's  eclat, 

Glorious  beacons  of  the  age, 
WTise  dispensers  of  the  law  ; 

Who  exalts  the  Teacher's  name  '> 

Who  shall  sing  the  Teacher's  fame  '? 


THE  TEACHER.  37 

Poets  sing  of  beauty  bright, 

Peerless  as  the  evening  star ; 
Shining;  radiant  with  light, 

Singly  in  the  heavens  afar ; — 
Who  exalts  the  Teacher's  name 
And  writes  it  on  the  page  of  fame '? 

Nobler  work  is  thine  by  far 

Than  the  warriors  fearful  art ; — 
His  to  slay  in  bloody  war, 

Thine  to  mould  the  mind  and  heart ; — 
Opening  up  a  peaceful  way, 
Turning  darkness  into  day. 

And  the  statesman,  where  were  he, 

Were  thy  humble  teachings  not  ? 
Toiling  on  in  poverty, 

Fameless — by  the  world  forgot ! 
Through  thy  toil  he  wins  a  name : — 
Thou  sowest  and  he  reapeth — fame. 

And  what  indeed  is  beauty's  self 
With  all  the  power  of  wealth  combined '? 

Choice  gift :  and  yet  as  paltry^pelf . 
Weighed  in  the  balance  with  the  mind ; — 


38  TKACHKR. 

A  mind  well  trained  in  virtue's  ways 
Glorious  in  truth — uiisull'd  by  praise 

Then  on,  thy  faithful  work  pursue  ! 

What  though  the  world  shall  heed  thee  not. 
True  to  thyself  to  conscience  true, 

Thou  shalt  not,  canst  not  be  forgot. 
Thy  works  alone  shall  bless  thy  name — 
Shall  give  thee  true  and  lasting  fame. 


SUGGESTED    ON    VIEWING    TABLE    ROCK,    FROM    WHICH  MISS 
RUGG  FELL  AT  NIAGARA  FALLS. 

I  pensive  she  gazed  upon  Niagara's  flood, 

Her's  was  a  mind  that  loved  to  contemplate 
A  scene  like  this. 

Aye,  not  with  eye  indifferent  she  viewed 
The  lowliest  brook  that  skips  adown  the  hill, 
Or  sings  meandering  through  the  meadows  green ; 
E'en  the  simplest  flower,  the  merest  blade  of  grass 
Had  charms  for  her.     Then  marvel  not  that  she 
Enraptured  gazed  upon  the  giant  flood, 
And  thuswise  mused,— 

"Oft  have  I  heard  of  thee, 

Niagara !     thy  cataract  wild !    and  oftentimes  have 
wished, 


40  LINES 

Yet  ne'er  before  have  gazed  mine  eyes  on  thee. 
Ah,  mighty  flood  !  emblem  of  power  supreme  ! 
Roll  on  thy  matchless  waves  ! — scatter  thy  mist  and 

foam 

To  Heaven's  wind !  and  in  the  sunbeams  paint 
All  Nature's  varied  hues — the  beautiful 
To  blend  with  the  sublime. 

Poets  have  tried, 

And  yet,  how  vainly  tried  to  sing  of  thee  ; 
For  can  the  farthest  stretch  of  fancy  vie 
With  Nature's  works  so  wonderful,  sublime  ? 
Ah  no  ; — far-famed  Niagara  !  yet  still 
Must  thou  remain  unsung,  save  by  thyself — 
The  deaf'ning  torrent's  loud  eternal  roar  ! 
That  rivalest  e'en  'Heaven's  artillery!' 
And  dashing  thy  mad  foam  on  rocks  below 
Speak  forth  to  man  that  power  which  bids  thee  move  I 
Longer  I  may  not  look  upon  thy  flood, 
But  onward  haste  across  Lake  Erie's  wave, 
Where  friends  impatient  wait  to  welcome  me. 
But  what  is  this — ah !  see  the  slender  shrub 
That  bows  its  head  o'er  the  wild  precipice, 


LINES  41 

As  if,  in  pride  to  view  the  mad'ning  foam. 

Ah,  I  will  pluck  thee  !  and  when  far  away 

Thou  wilt  recall  fresh  to  my  memory 

The  proudest  scenery  that  nature  boasts." 

Forward  she  step'd  a  pace  the  shrub  to  pluck 

Lean'd  o'er  the  dizzy  height,  her  balance  lost. 

"Save  me!"  she  cried,  but  ah,  it  was  in  vain ! 

For  he  who  would  have  gladly  risked  his  life, 

To  rescue  her,  hath  caught  naught  but  her  scarf, — 

While  she  lies  gasping  on  the  rocks  below 

An  hundred  feet !     Ah,  maiden  !  never  more 

Wilt  thou  behold  the  scenes  thou  loved'st  so  well ! 

In  vain  for  thee  may  Nature  spread  her  flowers, 

Save  to  adorn  the  sod  above  thy  tomb  ! 

In  vain  for  thee  the  birds  may  tune  their  lay 

Save  but  to  chant  a  requiem  to  thee ! 

Aye,  e'en  Niagara's  all  deafening  roar — 

Its  dashing  torrents  ne'er  can  waken  thee. 

Lake  Ontario,  Aug.,  1844. 


GALESVILLE  UNIVERSITY,  1864. 

Scarce  ceased  the  Indian  war-whoop  by  the  stream, 

Scarce  died  the  echoes  'mong  the  circling  hills, 
When  rose  thy  walls,  fresh  from  the  quarry  cleft, 
Firm  in  their  native  strength  with  small  pretence 
To  polished  beauty, — void  of  vain  display. 
No  classic  column  grand  nor  sculptured  frie/e 
To  tell  thy  greatness  and  thy  deeds  recount. 
Thine  is  a  fame  unwritten, — yet  to  write. 
E'en  now,  the  wild  deer  startled  at  thy  chime, 
Shakes  his  broad  antlers,  snuffs  the  vibrant  air, 
And  widens  far  the  distance  from  the  sound. 
The  timid  beaver,  from  his  patient  toil, 
Looks  up  suspicious,  dives  beneath  the  stream, 
And  seeks  the  sheltering  cave  beneath  the  bank. 
Around  the  virgin  prairie  stretches  far, 
Where  the  despoiling  plow-share  ne'er  has  been. 
There  in  the  springtime  modest  voilets  bloom, 
The  wild-rose  fragrance  tioats  on  summer  breeze, 
And  bright  blue  gentian  glads  the  autumn  days. 


GALE8VILLE  UNIVERSITY.  48 

By  stream,  on  prairie  and  the  hills  around, 
The  burial-mounds  are  picturesquely  grouped, 
Where  sleep  a  former  race  to  us  unknown  ;— 
For  history's  silent  and  tradition  mute. 
Only  the  oak,  deep  rooted  in  their  dust, 
Tells  of  the  cycling  years  since  in  the  land 
They  held  perchance  proud  sway. 
Brief  though  thy  life, 
Not  unalloyed  with  trials  it  hath  been, 
Born  riot  in  affluence  to  be  caressed 
And  fondly  flattered  by  a  partial  world, 
Thou'st  won  thy  way,  content  in  doing  good. 
War  in  the  land ;  thou  sendest  to  the  field 
Thy  brave  young  men  to  strike  in  Freedom's  cause. 
Aye,  many  a  costly  sacrifice  thou'st  laid 
On  our  dear  country's  altar ;  yet  still  on 
Musjt  be  thy  course,  and  upward,  upward  still, 
Till  rent  the  cloud,  proud  Science  stands  revealed ; 
And  classic  lore  becomes  as  household  words. 
Yet  stop  not  here  but  onward  to  the  end ; 
For  nobler,  brighter  and  more  glorious  far 
Is  thy  proud  mission.     Thine  it  is  to  cast 
A  holy  radiance  o'er  the  darkened  world 
And  teach  mankind  to  war  no  more — . 


SPRING-TIME. 

Cee,  the  sunny  hills  are  peeping 
^From  their  snowy  mantle  white  ; 
And  the  streams  in  bondage  sleeping, 
Laugh  again  in  fair  sunlight. 

From  the  hills  the  torrents  pouring — 
Skip  the  merry  rills  along  ; 

Tinkling  now,  now  hoarsely  roaring, 
Mingled  in  one  varied  song. 

Hark,  the  partridges  are  drumming 
From  the  distant  moss-grown  logs  ; 

List  the  wild  bees'  merry  humming  ; 
Loudly  peep  the  noisy  frogs. 

On  the  sunny  slopes  the  flowers 
Ope  their  petals  to  the  day, 

And  within  the  budding  bowers, 
Birds  awake  their  happiest  lay. 


SPRING-TIME.  45 

To  the  field  with  features  glowing 

Walks  the  honest  farmer  now 
While  the  gentle  zephyrs  blowing 

Grateful  fan  his  ruddy  brow. 

0  when  all  around  is  gladness, 

Youthful,  beautiful  and  bright, 
And  the  song  once  touched  with  sadness, 

Wakes  to  strains  of  pure  delight. 

Let  us  seek  that  priceless  treasure 
Which  Dame  Fortune  cannot  blast ; — 

Pure  and  intellectual  pleasure  ; 
Spring-time  cannot  always  last. 

Stowe,  Vt.,  1837. 


DOLLARS. 


T  ist  to  the  gossips  over  the  way  ; 

^-AVhat  is  the  burden  of  all  they  say 

As  they  trifle  the  priceless  moments  away  '.> 

Dollars. 


Thin  and  early  grey  his  hair ; 
Deeply  furrowed  his  brow  with  care  : 
What  has  written  these  hard  lines  there ? 

Dollars. 


Deep  in  the  prison's  gloomy  cell : 
Why  does  he  live  in  this  earthly  hell, 
You  earnestly  ask,  and  who  can  tell  ? 

Dollars. 


Bending  low  at  his  daily  toil, 
Delving  away  at  the  stubborn  soil 
From  morning  till  night,  to  win  the  spoil, 

Dollars. 


DOLLARS,  47 

Cold  and  stark  and  stiff  he's  laid 

Near  the  highway  in  the  shade, 

An  ugly  wound  in  his  breast  was  made 

For  Dollars. 


War  shook  out  the  banner  red  ; 

Strike  for  your  country  and  glory !    they  said, 

Beneath  in  letters  of  blood  I  read, 

Dollars. 


THE  WANDERER'S  SONG  OF  HOME. 


Ogive  me  back  my  humble  cot, 
'Neath  the  shade  of  the  spreading  tree, 
A  halo  is  over  the  sacred  spot 

Where  the  wearying  cares  of  earth  come  not, 
And  the  wild  birds  warble  free. 


Sweet  are  the  tones  of  the  singing  brook 

That  winds  along  by  the  hill. 
And  dear  are  the  paths  that  my  childhood  took, 

By  the  moss-grown  rock  and  the  shady  nook. 
That  the  heart  doth  treasure  still. 


I  ask  not  the  toys  of  golden  gain, 

Or  the  bauble  of  worldly  fame, 
I  ask  but  my  childhood's  home  again, 

And  the  dear  old  scenes  that  ever  remain, 
Though  changes  still  the  same. 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DRINK? 


1 1  Tliat  shall  we  drink  in  the  days  of  our  youth, 

'  When  all  things  around  us  seem  beauty  and  truth  ; 
When  we  love  simple  nature  unfettered  by  art, 
And  happy  emotions  gush  free  from  the  heart ; 
Ere  we  dream  that  the  world  hath  a  sorrow  or  care, 
So  blue  are  the  skies  and  the  flowers  so  fair  ? 
Water,  bright  water,  that  springs  from  the  earth — 
That  sparkles  in  sunlight,  skips  onward  in  mirth — 
That,  dashing  o'er  pebbles,  bounds  playfully  up, 
Snatching  a  kiss  from  the  violet's  cup". 

What  shall  we  drink  when  manhood  hath  brought 
Its  proud  aspirations  with  intellect  fraught — 
When  hope  points  aloft  to  the  beacon  of  Fame, 
And,  urging  us  onward,  we  sigh  for  a  name — 
When  we  bum  with  desires  impatient  to  find 
Some  long-hidden  treasure  deep  locked  in  the  mind  ? 
Water,  drink  deep  from  the  pure,  living  fountain 
That  gushes  afresh  from  the  rock  of  the  mountain, 
Where  beetling  crags  hang  dizzy  on  high, 
Whose  summits  appear  to  embrace  the  blue  sky, 

7 


50  WHAT  SHALL  WE  DRINK  ? 

What  shall  we  drink  when  the  Spring-time  hath  tied, 
And  Time's  icy  fingers  have  frosted  our  head — 
When  Hope's  fairy  visions  have  faded  away, 
And  fond  aspirations  have  passed  to  decay- 
When  those  whom  we  loved,  and  who  wept  for  our  pain. 
Are  slumbering  never  to  waken  again  ? 
Water !  0  drink  from  the  deep  river's  tide. 
Meandering  through  meadows  of  beauty  and  pride— 
Whose  broad,  placid  waters,  in  grandeur  sublime, ,. 
Move  silentlv  on  to  the  ocean  of  Time. 


BUENS'  B1KTH-DAY. 

COMPOSED  FOR  THE  BURNS'  FESTIVAL. 

[Air,  "Brace's  Address."] 

Hail !  0  hail !  thy  natal  day, 
Scotia's  Bard  of  matchless  lay  ! 
How  shall  we  meet  tribute  pay 

To  thy  magic  lyre  ? 
What  though  horn  in  lowly  cot, 
Rich  in  what  the  proud  hath  not, 
Shalt  thou  ever  he  forgot. 

Whom  the  world  admire  ? 


Lightener  of  the  poor  man's  cares — 
Bobbing  time  of  silvery  hairs — 
Plucking  up  the  thorns  and  tares 

From  onr  path  along ; — 
Soft  thy  glowing  heart-tones  gush. 
Sweet  as  mellow  note  of  thrush 
Warbled  in  the  gloaming's  hush — 

Nature's  child  of  song  ! 


52  BURNS'  BIRTH  DAY. 

Scotia's  Bard,  sweet  be  thy  rest ! 
Wept  by  those  who  loved  thee  best ; 
Bloom  the  daisies  o'er  thy  breast 

As  each  spring  returns  ;— 
Though  hath  ceased  thy  earthly  strain, 
Fresh  thy  memory  shall  remain  ;— 
Ne'er  we'll  see  thy  like  again, 
Peerless  Robert  Burns. 


PBOLOGUE 

FOR  AN  EXHIBITION  AT  STOWE,  VT.,  1847. 

1   adies  and  gentlemen,  to  you, 

Perhaps  apology  is  due 
That  you  have  left  your  homes  awhile 
To  greet  us  with  a  sunny  smile, 
For  we  can  make  but  poor  display 
In  feats  or  scenical  array ; 
But  time  dragged  heavily  along, 
Like  some  old  tedious  hackneyed  song, 
That  once  perhaps  had  power  to  cheer, 
But  now  is  mawkish  to  our  ear. 
So  just  to  push  dull  cares  aside, 
And  give  a  flow  to  fancy's  tide, — 
Forget  the  wearying  cares  of  earth, 
And  loose  the  reins  to  harmless  mirth  ; 
To  wake  again  to  life  anew, 
Scenes  long  since  vanished  from  our  view ; 
To  laugh  at  follies  that  are  fled, 
Inculcate  virtues  in  their  stead ; — 
In  short,  to  have  a  relaxation 
From  toil  and  care  and  consternation. 


54  PROLOG TK. 

Green-mountain  boys  who  till  the  soil 

Along  Winooski  and  Lamoille, 

Can  seldom,  save  it  be  by  chance, 

Hear  Russell  sing,  see  Elsler  dance. 

They  find  no  respite  from  their  work. 

To  visit  Boston  or  New  York. 

Yet  who'd  exchange  our  mountain  air 

For  city  life  or  city  fare '/ 

Our  scenery,  no  device  of  art, 

But  such  as  Nature  may  impart. 

Our  songsters,  birds,  that  sing  all  day. 

Our  dancing,  herds  that  skip  and  play 

In  the  green  pastures  where  the  streams 

Bound  sparkling  in  the  sunny  beams. 

Winter  hath  sped,  and  spring  i  trow 
Will  soon  disperse  these  banks  of  snow, 
And  softest  zephyrs  kindly  blow. 
Success  to  him  who  tills  the  soil, 
Rich  his  reward  for  honest  toil. 
And  finally  success  to  all. 
Or  high  or  low  or  great  or  small. 
Let  virtue  reign  and  world!  v  lust 


EPILOGUE.  55 


Keep  silent  in  oblivious  dust. 
Thus  ends  my  mission  as  I  bear 
You  welcome  to  our  homely  fare. 


EPILOGUE  FOK  SAME. 


Time  speeds  him  on,  Spring  comes  and  Autumn  drear 

Strews  broad  o'er  hill  and  plain  the  withered  leaves. 

Winter,  stern  winter,  with  his  piercing  blasts, 

Howls  round  our  casement  speaking  bitter  things ; 

The  Hush  of  youth  must  fade  upon  our  cheek, 

The  jocund  laugh  and  mirth  no  more  resound 

And  rosy  youth  give  place  to  withered  age. 

Yes,  all  decays  and  passes  as  a  dream 

Save  that  pure  gem  which  brighter  grows  with  age, 

Unsullied  Virtue  ;  cherished  in  our  hearts 

That  priceless  gift ;  for  varied  as  the  scenes 

In  human  life  presented  to  our  view. 

Doth  not  vice  ever  meet  its  just  deserts 

And  doth  not  virtue  reap  its  own  reward  ? 


EPILOGUE. 


FOLLOWING     THE     PRESENTATION    OF    "TEN     NIGHTS    IN    A 


BAR    ROOM. 


ends  our  play,  good  friends,  the  virtuous  blest, 
The  vicious  punished,  the  weary  gone  to  rest, 
And  some,  who  through  temptation  went  astray, 
Through  tribulation  found  the  better  way. 
See  Simon  Slade,  the  genius  of  the  mill, 
And  Simon  Slade,  the  patron  of  the  still. 
What  seems  at  first  so  prosperous  and  bright, 
Lead  swiftly,  surely  down  to  Ruin's  night, — 
Heartbroken  mother  in  the  grave  laid  low, 
Steeped  in  the  "gall  of  bitterness"  and  woe. 
Thus  ends  the  scene  that  seemed  with  joy  begun — 
A  ruined  father,  paricidal  son. 


EPILOGUE.  57 

If  we  are  players  and  the  world's  a  stage, 
As  Shakespeare  says  in  ancient  verse  and  sage, 
0  may  we  take  this  lesson  to  our  heart, 
And  study  well  to  act  a  virtuous  part. 
Let  not  the  appetite  or  lust  for  power, 
Lead  us  astray  in  an  unthinking  hour ; 
But  ever  upward,  onward  in  the  right, 
True  to  our  principles.     Kind  friends,  good  night. 
Galesville, 


THE  DYING  SOLDIER'S   SOLILOQUY  ON   THE 
FIELD  OF  MONTEREY. 

*  *  LMed,  tied,  0,  Fame  !     How  I  have  cherished  thee 

-*-  And  hugged  thee  to  my  bosom's  inmost  shrine. 
Aye,  since  a  child  I  heard  my  grandsire  tell 
Of  daring  deeds  upon  the  battle  field, 
Or  read  upon  the  page  of  wild  romance 
How  Knights  have  borne  them  in  the  tourney's  list, 
I've  burned  to  win  a  name. 

It  was  for  this 

I  left  my  home,  a  home  I  held  most  dear. 
Who  could  but  love  a  home  in  green  Vermont, 
Amid  its  hills,  its  silvery  sparkling  streams, 
Its  mountains  wild  and  woodland  breezes  pure. 
How  vivid  to  me  comes  the  vision  now, 
Of  low-roofed  cottage  hung  with  trailing  vine, — 
Of  orchard  blossoms  in  the  sweet  spring-time, 
There  strayed  my  feet  in  childhood's  early  morn. 


DYING  SOLDIER'S  SOLILOQUY.  59 

My  mother,  I  remember  thy  sad  look, 

Thy  silvery  locks,  the  tears  that  coursed  adown 

Thy  furrowed  cheek,  the  morn  I  took  my  leave. 

My  sister,  too,  I  mind  me  well  of  thee 

As  on  my  breast  you  breathed  a  sad  farewell 

And  sobbing  bade  your  brother  soon  return. 

Ah,  never,  never  sister,  back  to  thee, 

I'll  come  again,  thy  gladsome  smile  shall  greet 

Me  hence  no  more. 

This,  this  is  fame  ! 
A  bauble  vanished  now. 

Not  thus  this  morn, 

When  the  earth  shook  convulsed  with  battle's  din, 
And  dense  the  smoke  rolled  blank'ning  to  the  sky. 
Firm  then  my  hand  upon  the  saber's  hilt, 
Flashed  the  bright  blade  from  scabbard  in  the  air : 
Now  lies  it  nerveless  on  the  slippery  sod, 
And  darkly  clotted  with  a  brother's  gore. 
I  see  it  now,  the  cursed  delusion's  fled ! 
I  view  the  golden  links  of  Friendship's  chain 
That  bind  in  peace  one  brotherhood  of  man ; 
But  from  my  side  the  life-tide  bubbles  fast. 
And  dark  the  curtain  o'er  my  vision  conies. 
Vermont !  would  I  could  see  thy  hills  again, 


60  DYING  SOLDIER'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Could  feel  thy  cooling  breezes  on  my  brow, 
And  clasp  my  darling  sister's  hand  in  mine, 
I'd  die  in  peace. 

•SYoMT,  17.,  1H4H. 


GROWING  OLD. 


1am  growing  old  you  say ;  I  do  not  feel  it ; 
I  know  'tis  true,  my  friend,  as  you  do  say ; 
My  hair  is  gray,  my  features  too  reveal  it, 
Yet  childhood  seems  to  me  as  yesterday. 

The  earth  in  all  its  beauty  lies  before  me ; 

The  landscape  never  brighter  seemed  before ; 
The  stars,  the  moon,  the  sun,  in  all  their  glory 

Look  down  as  kindly  as  in  days  of  yore. 

I  hear  them  say  the  world  hath  naught  but  sorrow 
And  this  bright  earth  they  call  a  vale  of  tears  ; 

They  weep  to-day  ah1  fearful  that  the  morrow 
Shall  bring  new  shadows  to  their  sunless  years. 


62  GROWING  OLD. 

Why  should  we  paint  in  somber  leaden  shading, 
To  bar  the  sunlight  from  our  earthly  Ijfe '? 

Have  we  no  work  but  tasks  the  most  degrading, 
Wasting  our  days  in  bickering  and  strife  ? 

Aye,  many  a  task  whose  wealth  is  in  the  doing, 
Invite  the  hand  and  heart  from  day  to  day ; 

A  kindly  word  with  kindly  act  pursuing, 
To  lead  a  burdened  brother  on  his  way. 


PIONEERS'  GREETING 


COMPOSED  FOR  THE  PIONEERS    FESTIVAL. 


Music  —"Hold  the  Fort." 


]l  f  en  who  saw  our  County  waken 

l*-ljj«rom  it8  native  sleep,— 

Bore  the  hardships,  dared  the  perils 

Of  the  wildness  deep  ; — 
Welcome  !  'tis  with  joy  we  greet  you ! 

Welcome  to  our  band  ! 
Whatso'er  your  kin  or  country, 

Here's  our  proffered  hand ! 

Ye,  who  turned  the  toughened  furrow 

Of  the  virgin  soil, 
Waiting  patiently  the  harvest 

To  reward  your  toil ; 
Welcome,  &c. 


64  PIONEERS'  GREETING. 

Sturdy  Artisans,  Mechanics, 

Men  of  nerve  and  brain ; 
Ye  whose  strokes  first  waked  the  echoes 

Of  the  wild  domain  ; 
Welcome,  &c. 

On  the  prairies,  in  the  valleys 
Hath  your  toil  been  blest ; 

Lightly  may  life's  cares  and  sorrows 
On  your  future  rest ! 

Welcome  &c. 


THE  VACANT  GKAVE. 

V\;re  laid  him  to  rest  in  the  land  he  loved 

With  the  murmur  of  gentle  stream  below, 
And  the  sough  of  pine-tree  boughs  above, 

That  waved  in  the  breezes  to  and  fro  ; 
Twas  meet  he  should  rest  in  his  own  dear  land, 

'Mid  the  work  of  his  philanthropic  hand. 

There's  a  vacant  grave  where  his  form  was  laid, 
And  the  stream  giveth  forth  a  mournful  note  ; 

And  through  the  boughs  where  the  "soft  winds  played" 
A  wild  sad  requiem  seems  to  float ; 

For  there  stealthily  came  a  stranger  hand 
And  bore  him  away  to  a  stranger  land. 

9 


66  THE   VACANT  GRAVE. 

Yet  why  should  we  mourn  that  sleeps  not  here, 

« . 

The  "ashes  to  ashes,  dust  unto  dust," 
We  know  that  his  spirit  is  hovering  near 

The  objects  it  cherished,  true  to  its  trust ; 
The  monument  that  forever  shall  stand, 

Is  the  good  he  wrought  with  a  liheral  hand. 


WINTER  PETS. 


YIThen  orchard  blossoms,  with  fragrance  rare 

Gave  their  perfume  to  the  balmy  air, 
And  in  every  shrub  and  tree  was  heard 
The  hum  of  bee,  or  the  song  of  bird,— 
T'was  in  those  sunny,  bright  May  days 
There  came  to  our  garden  two  blue  jays ; 
They  built  in  the  forks  of  a  poplar  tree 
A  nest,  and  reared  of  birdlings  three. 
Wild  were  their  screamings,  fierce  and  rude 
When  enemies  threatened  their  callow  brood. 


As  summer  came  with  it's  fervent  heat, 
They  stayed  in  the  garden's  cool  retreat, 
To  feed  on  early  cherries,  the  while 
Chattering  in  most  fantastic  style. 


68  WINTER  PETS. 

\Ve  praised  and  petted  the  little  wren 
That  came  in  its  annual  round  again, 
To  build  in  the  honeysuckle's  shade 
Beneath  the  window's  balustrade  ; 
We  listened  the  oriole's  melodv 
That  came  from  the  leafy  maple  tree. 
Swelling  with  pride  his  golden  breast, 
As  his  ladybird  sat  in  her  swinging  nest. 
We  loved  the  robin,  a  favorite  bird, 
That  woke  in  our  bosom  a  homelike  chord. 
And  held  our  breath  in  the  twilight's  hush 
To  listen  the  silver  noted  thrush  ; 
But  who  shall  offer  a  word  of  praise 
To  those  screaming  silly,  chattering  jays'? 

When  autumn  came,  with  the  birds  to  dine 
On  the  purple  fruit  of  the  laden  vine, 
We  welcomed  them, — of  right  belongs 
Such  tribute,  for  their  cheerful  songs  ; 
And  there  seemed  a  sadness  in  the  strain, 
As  they  warbled  forth  their  last  refrain, 
Ere  they  said  adieu  and  plumed  their  wings 
To  fly  awray  to  the  new  born  springs. 


WINTER  PETS.  69 

Winter  is  here  ;  the  gay  some  throng, 
Those  summer  friends  of  wit  and  song 
Have  gone,  and  we  hear  the  shriek 
Of  the  wind  from  the  rocky  mountain  peak. 
Without  there  is  little  our  hearts  to  cheer, 
But  our  winter  friends,  the  jays  are  here  ; 
They  sit  on  the  verge  of  the  window  sill, 
Splitting  the  corn  with  their  hard,  sharp  bill, 
Casting  a  glance  of  their  patient  eyes, 
Up  to  the  frozen,  pitiless  skies, 
While  the  piercing  blasts  of  the  winter  day 
Euffle  their  plumage  bright  and  gay, 
Cheering  our  homes  with  their  presence  rare, 
While  earth  is  desolate  everywhere. 
Welcome  to  feed  at  the  corn-crib's  store ! 
Welcome  to  pick  at  the  kitchen  door ! 
Welcome  as  presence  of  well  tried  friend, 
Constant  and  true  to  the  bitter  end. 


THE  CONVICT. 

Tie  stood  upon  the  fatal  drop.     His  brow 

Was  deeply  carved,  not  with  the  hand  of  Time, 
But  deep  remorse  had  set  its  impress  there. 
His  eye  was  dim,  his  sallow  sunken  cheeks, 
Too  plainly  spoke  the  sentiments  within. 
Silent  he  stood  and  stoically  sad ; 
For  dismal  days  and  dreary,  sleepless  nights, 
Within  the  dungeon's  dark,  damp,  vaulted  walls, 
Where  ne'er  a  ray  of  sunlight  e'er  had  been, 
Groaning  beneath  the  weight  of  shackles  bound, 
Made  life  on  earth  indifferent  to  him. 
Aye,  more  than  that,  he  longed  to  lie  him  down 
And  sleep  the  sleep  of  dim  forgetfulness — 
That  sleep  that  knows  on  earth  no  waking  hour. 
Around  he  gazed  yet  seemed  not  to  behold 
The  thick'ning  crowd  that  gathered  round  to  see 
In  agony,  their  fellow  man  expire. 
Ah  !  heartless  man,  say  dost  thou  joy  to  see 
Thy  erring  brother's  dying  agonies  ? 
Oh  how  perverted  are  the  noble  gifts 


THE  CONVICT.  71 

That  God  and  Nature  kindly  gave  to  thee ! 
Thus  would 'st  thou  have  thy  brother  do  by  thee  ? 
Thus  would'st  thou  feel  his  friendly  sympathy? 
Shame,  shame  to  thee  !  and  to  that  nation,  shame  ! 
Who  to  avenge  an  erring  brother's  wrong, 
Commits  a  crime  more  heinous  far  than  his ! 
Would'st  send  thy  missionaries  far  abroad 
To  enlighten  heathen,    and  then  do  foul  deeds, 
At  which  e'en  they  themselves  with  horror  start? 

Not  once  despised  and  coldly  spurned  by  all, 
Was  he  who  stands  before  thee  now  condemned. 

0  no,  not  always,  for  he  once  had  friends.  „ 

1  call  them  friends,  alas,  it  is  not  true, 
For  they  but  falsely  bore  that  sacred  name. 
Such  friends  were  they  as  sordid  wealth  can  buy ; 
For  once  with  him  they  took  the  poison  cup  : — 
Loud  rung  their  laugh  round  the  convivial  board, 
Where  first  he  kindled  those  illuring  fires 

That  sped  him  onward  to  the  fatal  goal. 

Reader,  I  need  not  tell  to  thee  the  tale, 

Short  is  the  step  from  Error's  pith  to  crime. 

Twas  thus  with  him.     Once  drunk  the  baneful  cup, 


72  THE  CONVICT. 

His  brain  "steeped  high     with  wine  he  sat  around 
The  gambler's  board,  when  by  a  luckless  move. 
His  all  he  lost ;  enraged  he  drew  a  knife  ;— 
A  moment  glittered  and  then  gleamed  no  more, 
But  reeking  dripped  with  his  despoilers  blood. 
'Twas  not  the  man,  the  poison  did  the  deed. 
Thou  know'st  the  sequel. — 

Severed  now  the  eord. 

Down  falls  the  ponderous  drop  ;  the  victim  writhes 
In  agonies  of  death.     The  eager  crowd 
Behold  with  fiendish  joy  the  hellish  deed. 


FAREWELL  TO  WINTER. 

/  1  ood-bye,  Old  Father  Winter  ! 
"  'Tis  well  that  we  have  met, 
There's  chast'ning  in  thy  whitened  locks, 
Yet  we  part  without  regret ; 


For  we've  a  cherished  memory 
Of  thy  winsome  daughter  sweet, 

Who  laid,  about  a  year  ago, 
Fresh  flowers  at  our  feet. 


The  glad  birds  greeted  her  with  song 
Where  e'er  she  took  her  away. 

And  Flora  strewed  her  path  along 
With  many  a  rich  boquet. 


10 


FAREWELL  TO  WINTER. 

We  love  her  bright  and  sunny  smiles — 

The  fragrance  of  her  flowers, 
And  yet,  she  bringeth  care  to  man, 
And  weary,  toilsome  hours. 

Good-bye  then,  Father  Winter  ! 

T'is  well  that  we  have  met — 
There's  chast'ning  in  thy  wrhitened  locks, 

Yet  we  part  without  regret. 


"ALBUM  OF  LOVE." 

WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY?S  ALBUM. 

4  Ibum  of  love  !  thy  pure  and  spotless  pages, 
^*  Invite  the  pen  to  the  delightful  theme, 
Which  erst  did'st  turn  the  heads  of  hoary  sages, 
And  rainbow-tint  the  youthful  poet's  dream. 


Album  of  Love  !  within  thy  sacred  covers, 
What  shall  the  offering  be  that  I  bring  ? 

Shall  it  such  tribute  be  as  partial  lovers 
To  the  fond  ears  of  their  beloved  ones 


Or  shall  I  wish  thy  owner  worldly  honor, 
Such  as  the  votaries  of  wealth  bestow  ? 

The  choicest  gifts  of  earth  bestowed  upon  her, 
Blessings  which  mortals  very  rarely  know  ? 


Yes  these  be  hers,  and  more  —  when  life's  stern  changes 
Have  all  been  rung  with  pleasure  to  the  last, 

And  to  a  future  hope  her  vision  ranges, 

May  she  look  backward  o'er  a  virtuous  past. 


HORACE  GHEELEY. 

TTis  work  is  done,  his  busy  life  is  ended ; 
•A^-Tbe  beart  is  still  that  beat  with  love  for  all ; 
Wide  as  the  earth  his  sympathies_extended — 
A  work  so  noble  that  his  faults  seem  small. 


His  work  is  done,  hath  ceased  bis  earthly  mission, 
Hushed  is  his  voice,  and  nerveless  is  bis  pen ; 

The  poison  breath  of  slanderous  politician 
Eings  out  in  fullsome  praise  to  him  again. 

He  hears  it  not,  no  words  can  dim  bis  glory ; 

His  deeds  shall  brighten  as  the  earth  grows  old ; 
"He  loved  his  fellow  man,"  as  in  the  story, 

His  life  and  name  are  writ  in  words  of  gold. 

Dec.  1872 


THE  GIFT. 


Roaming  through  the  forest  shade 
In  the  early  morning  dew, 
By  the  brooklet  in  the  glade, 

There  I  plucked  these  flowers  for  you ; 
Just  upon  the  bank  they  grew, 

Kissed  full  oft  by  bounding  spray, 
Bowed  to  watch  the  streamlet's  flow, 

Sparkling  on  its  merry  way; 
May  thy  life  be  blest  as  they." 


THE  ACCEPTANCE. 

• 

"Blest  are  they,  aye,  ever  blessing, 

Are  these  sweet  and  beauteous  flowers, 
Rich  are  we  in  thus  possessing 

Gifts  more  bright  than  golden  dowers, 
What  though  fleeting  are  their  hours, 

They  shall  answer  life's  great  end ; 
Giving  fragrance  to  love's  bowers, 

Thus  they  sweet  enchantment  lend  ; 
Blessing  you  and  me  my  friend." 


LAY  HER  QUIETLY  TO  EEST. 

COMPOSED  DURING  THE  BURIAL  OF  MRS.  EMILY  CLARK. 

T  ay  her  quietly  to  rest 
-"Her,  the  loving  kind  and  true. 
And  above  her  peaceful  breast 
Plant  the  rose  and  violet  blue. 


Let  the  wild  bird  chant  above 
Tender  strains  of  gentlest  now, 

Fraught  with  sympathy  and  love, 
As  were  hers  who  sleeps  below. 

Lay  her  quietly  to  rest ; 

She  who  lived  to  bless  on  earth, 
Shall  she  not  herself  be  blest 

In  tb.3  new  anl  future  birth? 


LAY  HER  QUIETLY  TO  REST.  79 

She  whose  angel  hand  was  near 
Smoothing  oft  the  sufferer's  bed ; 

She  whose  sympathetic  tear 
Fell  in  sorrow  for  the  dead. 

Lay  her  quietly  to  rest, 

Lost  to  earth  forevermore  ; 
In  the  hearts  that  loved  her  best, 

She  shall  live  till  life  is  o'er. 

5,1866. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR. 


moon  rides  high  in  a  cloudless  sky 
And  the  stars  are  twinkling  bright  and  clear, 
As  we  bid  adieu  to  the  past  with  a  sigh, 
And  welcome  in  the  new-born  year. 

0,  cold  and  chill,  on  the  distant  hill, 
The  snow  throws  back  its  silver  sheen  — 

The  ice-bound  stream  seemed  locked  in  a  dream 
And  the  prairie  is  cheerless  stretched  between. 

But  cheerful  and  bright  is  the  home  fire-light. 

And  warm  is  the  glow  of  hearts  within  — 
May  each  day  be  as  dear  in  the  new-born  year, 

As  the  happiest  hours  of  the  past  have  been. 

Gcdesvitte,  1861. 


THE  THUNDER  SHOWER. 

rphe  sun  came  up  on  a  July  day 
-*-  Round  and  red  like  a  ball  of  fire ; 
As  up  the  heavens  he  took  his  way, 

The  mists  from  the  fields  and  streams  retire ; 
While  he  curled  the  leaves  of  the  hardy  maize 

Under  his  burning  noon-tide  blaze. 

An  ominous  stillness  seemed  to  reign,— 
The  birds  were  mute  in  the  leafy  boughs ; — 

We  breathed  the  stifling  air  with  pain, 
And  felt  a  stupor  we  could  not  rouse. 

The  panting  kine  all  listless  lay 
Within  the  shade  that  summer  dav. 


Hotter  and  hotter  burned  the  sun, 
As  down  the  western  slope  he  sped ; — 

The  farmer  left  his  task  undone, 

And  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  reeking  head. 

The  reaper  is  still  by  the  uncut  grain ; — 
The  horses  drip  as  from  shower  of  rain. 


11 


82  THE  THUNDER  SHOWER. 

0,  how  we  long  for  the  mountain  stream, 

Amid  the  wilderness  so  deep, 
Impervious  to  the  torrid  beam, 

Where  mosses  and  arbutus  creep, 
To  feel  the  grateful,  cooling  spray, 

As  it  dashes  on  its  rocky  way. 

But  look  !  along  the  murky  west, 
The  clouds  are  gathering  in  power  ; 

The  storm  fiend  mounts  a  thunder  crest, 
Whose  folds  with  anger  fiercely  lower. 

List  to  the  low  and  muffled  sound 

That  seems  to  shake  the  solid  ground  ! 

Louder  and  louder  the  thunder's  roar — 
The  lightning  darts  its  subtle  spark — 

The  fierce  wind  drives  the  dust  before — 
The  sun  is  shrouded,  the  earth  grows  dark ! 

The  herd  ran  bellowing  down  the  path, 
Fleeing  the  angry  tempest's  wrath. 

'Tis  here  !  it  strikes  with  a  deaf  ning  roar— 
The  forest  trees  to  the  earth  are  bent — 

Against  the  windows  the  hailstones  pour — 
The  casement  trembles,  the  glass  is  rent ! 

The  air's  aflame  with  the  lightning's  flash, 
The  torrents  rush  and  the  thunders  crash. 


REMINISCENCE. 


/  \  nee  I  knew  a  maiden  bright ; 
^  '  Hair  as  raven  as  the  night — 
Eyes  that  glowed  with  spirit  light. 

Beauty  seemed  too  poor  a  word,— 
Where  her  magic  voice  was  heard 
By  the  soul  of  genius  stirred. 

And  her  pure  and  loving  heart, 
Guileless  and  devoid  of  art, 
Of  herself  the  noblest  part, 

Loved  as  only  maiden's  can — 
True,  devoted  unto  man, 
Ever  since  the  world  began. 


REMIXSCEXCE. 


O'er  her  life  there  came  a  cloud  ; 
She  was  humble,  he  was  proud : 
Broken  were  the  vows  he  vowed. 


Thus  the  tale  the  poets  tell, 

When  has  passed  the  magic  spell  :— 

"Loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well." 

• 

Blighted  were  her  youthful  years, 
Earth  had  nothing  then  that  cheers, - 
Despondency  too  deep  for  tears. 

Sorrow  and  corroding  grief 

Made  her  stay  on  earth  but  brief — 

Kindly  grave,  her  last  relief. 

In  a  lonely  quiet  spot, 

Slab  or  headstone  mark  it  not, 

All,  save  by  a  few,  forgot. 


TO  BOREAS— SPRING  1874. 

\\ T  hy  tamest  thou  here 
*  '  With  thy  frost-breath  drear, 
Boreas  of  the  frozen  North  ? 

Back  o'er  the  wave, 
To  thy  north-land  cave, 
And  bid  Zephyrus  come  softly  forth  ! 

Long,  long  ago. 

Sol  melted  the  snow, 
And  we  heard  the  meadow-lark  sing ; 

And  on  the  sunny  slope, 
Saw  the  early  violets  ope, 

Their  petals  to  hail  the  new  spring. 

But  thou,  with  thy  frost  breath, 

Threatenest  them  death, 
Heartless  old  tyrant  as  thou  art — 

Now  away  to  thy  cave  o'er  the  northern  wave 
We  bid  thee  good  speed  as  we  part. 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


4    rambling  farm-house,  old  and  brown, 
^-^  Low-ceiled  and  spanned  with  naked  beam  ; 
With  doorway  looking  southward  down 

On  meadow  green  and  mountain  stream, 
That  murmured  ever  on  its  way, 

O'er  pebbles  bright  and  boulders  gray. 


Beyond  arose  the  fir-clad  hills 

In  penciled  beauty  to  our  view  ; 
While  down  its  sides  came  dashing  rills, 

Where  birch  and  beech  and  hemlock  grew  ; 
While  westward  Mansfield's  summit  high 

Was  sharply  profiled  'gainst  the  sky. 

Near  in  the  back-ground  north  and  west 
The  lofty  maples  towered  in  pride  ; 

So  green  in  spring-time  beauty  dressed, 
And  in  the  autumn  many  dyed. 

While  further  north  the  balsams  rare 
Sent  forth  their  fragrance  on  the  air. 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  87 

Quite  near  upon  the  eastern  slope 
The  orchard  stood,  where  in  the  spring, 

The  buds  and  blossoms  gave  the  hope 
Of  autumn  fruit  the  ripening ; — 

Awakening  visions  gay  and  bright, 
Of  social  joys  on  winter  night. 

How  sweet  upon  a  gay  May  morn, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  hum  of  bees ; — 

The  blooming  apple  and  the  thorn, 
Distilling  odors  on  the  breeze  ; 

Their  fragrance  seems  to  linger  yet,— 

Those  sights  and  sounds  we'll  ne'er  forget. 

They  are  no  more  !  the  grass  grows  green 
Where  erst  the  hearth-tire  blazing  bright, 

Shone  on  a  happy  household  scene 

Where  hearts  were  youthful,  joyous,  bright ; 

All  gone !  yet  memory  brings  to  view, 
Those  old  scenes  fresher  than  the  new. 

I  see  the  fireplace  huge  and  rude, 

My  grandsire  fashioned  with  his  hand 

When  he  came  to  the  solitude, 

Far  through  the  deep  wild  forest  land  ; 

He  felled  the  trees  and  reared  a  home 
Amid  the  wilderness  of  gloom. 


88  THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

The  rude  old  walls,  the  ample  hearth 
Where  glowed  the  firelight  long  ago, 

The  cheerful  voices,  songs  of  mirth  ; — 
Voices  that  earth  no  more  shall  know 

Yet  in  the  memory  abide 

More  precious  than  all  else  beside. 

The  costlier  dwelling  where  my  youth 
And  early  manhood's  days  were  past, 

Tarries  not  with  me,  while  in  truth, 
The  old  grows  brighter  to  the  last. 

I  hug  the  treasure  to  my  heart, 
Still  closer  as  the  years  depart. 

I  often  ask  if  heaven  hath  joys 

As  sweet  as  those  my  childhood  knew  ; 

As  free  from  cares  and  base  alloys,— 
As  pure,  as  beautiful  and  true  ; 

If  there  we'll  know  our  friends  as  here, 
That  in  our  memory  we  revere '? 


UNDER  THE  PINE  TREE. 


T  Tnder  the  pine  tree  long  ago, 
^  Oft  we  happy  children  played, 
Swung  on  its  branches  to  and  fro, 

Listened  the  music  the  soft  winds  made, 
Soft  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Under  the  pine  tree  long  ago, 
Happy  mother  and  childhood  glee, 

Under  the  shade  of  the  old  pine  tree. 


Under  the  pine  tree  late  I  stood, 

Gazing  back  o'er  the  fleeting  years, 
That  strangely  mingled  ill  with  good — 

Blending  ever  smiles  and  tears. 
Soft  and  mournfully  again, 

Fell  on  my  ear  the  sad  refrain, 
Gone,  all  gone  from  the  household  tree, 

Happy  mother  and  childhood  glee. 


12 


THE  OLD  SPINNING  WHEEL. 


T  Tp  in  the  garret,  a  worthless  thing, 
^  Soiled  with  the  dust  which  time  doth  cast,- 
Art  hath  triumphed,  "Cotton  is  King," 
And  thou  but  a  memory  of  the  past. 

And  yet  a  memory  deep  and  strong. 
Passing  not  with  the  fleeting  years,— 

Like  the  magic  rythm  of  some  old  song. 
That  ever  seems  ringing  in  our  ears. 

Humming  away  from  morn  till  night, 
Backward  and  forward  with  ceaseless  tread. - 

Humming  again  by  the  hearth-fire-light, 
Twisting  and  twining  the  endless  thread. 

The  spinner  oft  sang  some  ballad  old, 
Or  pleased  our  youthful  mind  by  turns 

With  wonderous  tales  of  heroes  bold, 
And  snatches  of  song  fron  Scott  or  Bums. 


THE  OLD  SPINNING  WHEEL.  91 

But  dearer  to  me  than  aught  on  earth, 
That  my  youthful  heart  might  fondly  prize 

And  hoard  as  a  treasure  of  priceless  worth 
Was  the  wonderful  light  of  her  loving  eyes. 

And  sadly  I  numbered  the  passing  years 

That  brought  with  their  burdens  the  lines  of  care, 

With  blighting  sorrows  too  deep  for  tears, 
Threading  with  silver  her  raven  hair. 

Her  work  is  done  ;  her  sorrows  are  o'er, 
Arid  the  seasons  that  in  their  courses  roll. 

Shall  brighten  the  memory  evermore, 
Of  her  loving  heart  and  her  poet  soul. 

WThile  oft  in  my  dreams  I  seem  to  hear 

The  humming  wheel  by  the  hearth-fire  glow, 

And  those  eyes  of  loving  light  so  dear, 
Have  the  magical  charm  of  the  long  ago. 

(ralesi'illc,  Jan.,  1873. 


UNCLE  BILL. 

4  s  backward  o'er  the  past  I  gaze, 
^  *  To  view  my  early  childhood  days, 
One  vision  haunts  me  still ; 

Companion  of  my  youthful  joys, 
The  maker  of  my  boyhood  toys, 
I  see  my  Uncle  Bill. 

He  had  a  visage  long  and  thin, 
A  forehead  high,  receding  chin, 

Which  might  be  counted  ill ; 
He  had  a  silly  senseless  air, 

His  blue  eyes  had  a  vacant  stare, 
Yet  he  was  Uncle  Bill. 


He  led  a  sort  of  aimless  life — 

He  had  few  friends,  he  had  no  wife 

To  comfort  him  when  ill ; 

And  thus  he  numbered  out  each  year; 

He  died, — and  who  shall  drop  a  tear 
For  lonely  Uncle  Bill  ? 


'LISH  BROWN— A  REMINISCENCE. 

HPwo  score  years  ago,  in  a  New  England  town, 

-*-  There  lived  an  "odd  stick"  by  the  name  of  'Lish 

Brown. 

That's  what  the  boys  called  him,  and  seldom  you  find 
A  man  so  peculiar  in  body  and  mind. 
He  was  coarse  in  his  manners,  he  stooped  in  his  gait, 
With  arms  like  gorrilla's,  a  tough,  curly  pate ; 
But  what  struck  a  stranger  with  wonder  complete 
Were  his  pedals — 0,  weren't  they  the  marvel  of  feet ! 
He  lived  on  a  hill,  in  a  town  very  new, 
Where  the  bears  were  in  plenty,  the  citizens  few, 
And  'tis  said  that  he  often,  in  combat  had  pressed 
Old  bruin,  who  always  came  off  second  best. 
When  we  speak  of  a  hill  in  Vermont,  'tis  a  hill 
To  which  these  are  ant-heaps,  that  circle  our  ville ; 
With  its  sides  thickly  studded  with  hemlock  and  fir, 
And  so  steep,  it  were  dangerous  even  to  stir ; 
A  beautiful  land  for  poetical  dream, 
With  meet  inspiration  to  temper  the  theme,— 


<)4  'LISH  BROWN. 

And  could  one  live  on  fancy,  'twere  all  very  well. 
Just  the  place  where  the  muses  with  genius  should 

dwell ; 

But  forced  into  toil  with  the  hoe  and  the  plow. 
To  eke  out  one's  bread  by  the  sweat  of  the  brow. 
What  with  stumps,  roots  and  logs,  and  rocks  strewed 

about, 

More  kinds  than  Hugh  Miller  has  ever  found  out. 
Oft  Pegasus  stumbles,  the  muses  take  ilight 
To  their  home  on  Parnassus,  and  leave  one  in  night. 

To  return  to  our  subject  again — Mr.  Brown, 
Who  lived  in  this  bit  of  a  New  England  town 
Where  all  "might,  with  hope,  to  an  office  aspire, 
For  the  least  in  the  place  wasn't  less  than  a  squire ; — 
Thus  it  chanced  that  our  hero,  one  tine  autumn  day, 
To  a  seat  in  Assembly  was  making  his  way ; 
His  toilet,  I  am  told,  was  his  all  and  his  best : 
Straw  hat  and  tow  pants,  without  coat  or  vest, 
The  distance  was  twenty-five  miles,  made  on  foot. 
With  feet  that  were  guiltless  of  shoe  or  of  boot. 
Arrived  at  the  Capitol  where  he  took  seat 
With  members  in  broadcloth  that  co'dn't  be  beat. 
Some  shrank  from  his  touch,   as  they  would  from  a 

snake, 


'LISH  i;i;o\\x.  95 

Exclaimed  in  disgust,  "There's  sure  some  mistake  !" 
While  others  inclined  to  be  waggish  and  smart,. 
Most  knowingly  wink'd  other  members  apart. 
One  said :  "Mr.  Brown,  I  hope  not  to  offend, 
But  had  your  town  no  one  quite  proper  to  send  ?" 
Said  Brown:  "There's  plenty  that's  better  I  'spose, 
But  stranger,  the  fact  is,  they  hadn't  got  clothes." 


MY  UNMABEIED  AUNT, 


ITvid  you  ever  know  my  dear,  dear  aunt, 
-^  A  woman  of  wondrous  skill  ? 
'Tis  a  long  time  since  I  beheld  her  face, 
But  memory  truly  her  features  doth  trace, 
And  I  seem  to  see  her  still. 


A  choice  good  creature  was  my  dear  aunt ; 

She  was  neither  too  tall  or  too  stout ; 
The  boys  used  to  call  her  a  crabbed  old  maid, 
But  they  slandered  her  wretchedly  I  am  afraid, 

Yes  they  lied  without  any  doubt. 

She  was  thirty,  'tis  true,  and  had  been  for  years, 

But  then  she  no  older  grew  ; 
With  wisdom  and  care  in  her  mind  she  set  down 
All  the  births  and  the  marriages  round  about  town, 

With  figures  surprisingly  true. 


MY  UNMARRIED  AUNT.  97 

A  gift  of  foresight  had  my  dear  aunt ; 

She  could  tell  all  the  signs  at  a  glance ; 
At  the  full  of  the  moon  her  onions  she  sowed, 
And  you  couldn't  name  anything  she  hadn't  'knowd' 

A  score  of  years  in  advance. 

Twas  a  wonder  to  many  why  my  dear  aunt 

Did  not  take  a  companion  for  life ; 
And  it  really  u-as  strange  that  with  talents  so  rare, 
With  gifts  so  prophetic  and  features  so  fair, 

That  she  had  not  been  claimed  for  a  wife. 


Tis  true  some  might  question  her  personal  charms, 

Find  fault  with  her  neck  or  her  waist ; 
And  say  that  her  hair  is  a  coarse,  dingy  brown, 
That  one  eye  looks  up  while  the  other  looks  down, 
But  that's  quite  a  matter  of  taste. 

1  hope  yet  to  see  her  as  blooming  a  bride 

As  any  we  read  of  in  song : 
And  if  anyone  has  a  nice  bachelor  friend, 
Whose  qualifications  he  can  recommend, 

I  wish  he  would  send  him  along. 

13 


A  LEAF  FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  GALESVILLE. 


ft  was  a  Yankee,  tall  and  spare, 
*Who  came  here  from  the  East, 
When  up  and  down  this  goodly  land, 
Roamed  savage  man  and  beast. 


And  standing  on  Decorra's  Peak, 

And  'peeking'  cutely  down, 
He  said,  ''There  is  a  glorious  place 

For  building  up  a  town." 

"Just  where  yon  silvery  sparkling  stream 
Winds  round  beneath  the  hill, 

I'll  raise  a  dam  and  by  its  side 
I'll  build  a  goodly  mill. 


A  LEAF  FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  GALESVILLE.  99 

And  on  that  little  table  land, 

So  close  beside  the  stream, 
There  let  the  court  of  justice  rise 

To  catch  the  morning  beam. 


That  while  the  farmer  sows  the  seed. 
The  miller  grinds  the  grain. 

The  lawyer  may  not  starve  to  death, 
For  want  of  legal  gain. 

And  on  the  table  just  beyond, 
By  hills  half  circled  round. 

There  let  the  seat  of  learning  stand, 
That  knowledge  may  abound. 

And  where  the  prairie  broader  grows 
And  swells  with  graceful  ease, 

There  shall  a  stately  mansion  rise 
Embowered  among  the  trees. 

Where  acres  broad  and  fair  to  view, 

Extend  on  every  side, 
With  woodland  on  the  hill-side  slope, 

And  meadows  rich  and  wide. 


100  A  LEAF  FROM  THE  HISTOIIY  OF  GALESVILLE. 

And  southward,  down  the  deep  ravine, 

The  iron  horse  shall  run  ; 
And  far  away  the  magic  wire 

Shall  glisten  in  the  sun." 

Thus  said  this  Yankee,  or* in  fact, 
He  rather  thought  than  spoke. 

Then  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel, 
To  prove  it  was  no  joke. 

The  mill  is  busy  at  its  work, — 
The  farmer's  crop  ne'er  fails — 

And  justice  firmly  holds  aloft 
The  undeviating  scales. 

And  here  are  we  from  many  lands. 
With  earnest  hearts  we  come  ; 

And  all  along  our  pleasant  streets 
Stands  many  a  quiet  home. 

And  now  the  busy  hum  of  trade 

Is  heard  on  every  side  ; 
While  yonder  stands  the  college  fair, 

Meet  object  of  our  pride. 


A  LEAF  FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  GALESVILLE.  101 

When  we  shall  hear  the  deep  toned  bell 

From  out  the  church's  spire — 
And  see  the  lightning  flash  along 

The  telegraphic  wire — 

And  hear  the  engine's  fearful  shriek 

As  cars  go  rushing  past ; — 
Then  may  we  hear  that  Yankee  say, 

"The  town  is  built  at  last." 
<inle*riUe,  1859. 


THE  SLAVE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Tt  is  no  dream  !     Alas,  it  is  no  dream  ! 

Too  well  I  know  the  hated  name — a  SLAVE  ! 
Would  I  had  died  ere  knowledge's  light  did  gleam 
Upon  me,  and  the  grass  upon  my  grave 
Were  green ;  then  I  in  peace  might  calmly  rest. 
And  free  from  Slavery's  galling  chain  : 
But  no,  it  might  not  be — hut  here  oppress'd 
By  a  base  tyrant's  hand  must  I  remain. 
0  I  remember( would  I  could  forget !) 
When  through  my  heated  brain  first  broke  the  truth ; 
Twas  when  my  mother's  cheek  with  tears  was  wet : 
And  I  was  then  a  child — a  "thoughtless  youth." 
What  though  man  treads  his  fellow  in  the  dust, 
And  keeps  from  him  his  boasted  works  of  art  : 
He  may  not  shuf  the  lids  of  nature's  book, 
Or  change  the  feelings  of  the  human  heart. 


THE  SI.AVK'S  SOLILOQUY.  103 

\ 

Why,  it  was  but  on  yestem  mom  the  sun 

Came  up  in  glory  ;  o'er  the  joyous  earth 

He  looked  abroad  :  all  nature  smiled  around : — 

On  grass  and  flower,  and  bush,  and  foliaged  tree, 

The  glistening  dew-gems  sparkled  in  its  ray. 

The  zephyr-breeze,  with  balmy  odors  rich, 

In  angel-whispers  through  the  foliage  breathed 

In  cadence  soft  as  an  ^Eolian  string ! 

The  birds  awoke  their  cheerful  matin  lay, 

And  tuned  their  mellow  throats  in  artless  song ; 

And  I  forgot  but  /  was  free  as  they : 

I  joined  their  strain ;  I  looked  to  hill  and  stream  ; 

'Twas  blissful  all !  for  nature  everywhere 

Bore  Freedom's  impress  stamp'd  by  God's  own  hand  ! 

Extatic  moment !  joy  unmixed  with  pain  ! 

If  heaven  there  be  on  earth,  then  this  were  heaven ! 

Alas  !  that  man  cannot  thus  always  dream  ! 

But  'tis  not  so,  for  through  my  burning  brain 

With  lightning  speed  broke  the  reality  ;— 

A  slarc!  a  chattel!  stripped  of  God's  best  gift, 

And  doomed  to  cower  beneath  a  tyrant's  power ! 

It  was  too  much  :  my  giddy  head  whirled  round ; 


104  THE  SLAVE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

I  threw  me  on  the  earth  and  groaned  aloud, 
0  depth  of  degradation  and  of  pain  ! 
Say,  shall  I  never  taste  of  Freedom's  air'? 
There  is  a  hope  that  on  the  distance  gleams- 
A  friendly  light  amid  the  darkning  gloom, 
'Tis  all  the  happiness  a  alacc  can  know  1 


SONG. 

SUNG  BY  D.  LOTHIAN  AT  THE  LIBERTY  CONVENTION  AT 
WEST  RANDOLPH,  VT.—  1845. 

F^riemls  of  Freedom,  we  are  here 
In  that  cause  our  hearts  hold  dear ; 
Shall  we  falter  shall  we  fear 
To  speak  for  Liberty  ? 
Not  while  despotism  reigns, 
Not  while  tyranny  remains, 
Not  while  clank  our  brother's  chains 
13orn  in  slavery ! 

• 

Is  this  the  land  where  all  are  free, 
Where  none  shall  bow  the  servile  knee, 
But  all  enjoy  Life,  Liberty, 
Our  father's  rich  bequest  ? 
Let  Webster,  Work  and  Torrey  tell 
From  out  the  Southron's  prison  cell, 
And  break  the  fiends  delusive  spell, 
That  lulls  the  North  to  rest ! 

14 


106  SONG. 


By  our  mountains  clad  in  white  ! 
By  our  homenres  blazing  bright ! 
By  the  laws  of  God  and  right 
And  humanity. 

We  will  raise  the  indignant  cry, 
Till  it  reach  the  vaulted  sky. 
Till  the  slave  shall  cease  to  sigh 
From  Southern  cruelty. 


DEFEAT  OF  FREEDOM. 

Vml  art  thou  crushed,  oh  !  Freedom  !  in  the  dust  ? 
' 
And  shall  the  land  that  boasts  thy  cherished  home 

Give  thee  a  grave  and  drink  thy  vital  blood, 
While  o'er  thy  prostrate  form  and  mangled  limbs, 
Stands  vile  Oppression  with  demoniac  grin, 
Shaking  aloft  the  manacles  and  chains  ? 

And  shall  vile  .man,  from  places  high,  proclaim,— 

Falsely  perverting  words  of  Holy  Writ — 

The  man  of  color  primtively  doomed — 

Ordained  of  Heaven  to  nil  a  lower  sphere  ? 

To  toil  and  suffer  for  a  tyrant's  ease — 

To  waste  his  soul  and  sinews  for  his  sake — 

To  starve  that  he  may  thus  more  sumptuous  fare, 

And  cower  and  tremble  'neath  the  scourging  whip  ? 


108  DEFEAT  OF  FREEDOM. 

Oh,  shame  !  what  makes  man  higher  than  the  beast  ? 

What  is  it  but  that  nobleness  of  soul 

Which  scorneth  self  and  seeks  another's  good — 

That  lifteth  up  the  sorrowing  and  oppressed, 

And  feels  a  kindred  love  for  all  mankind  ? 

Oh,  Freedom  !  crushed — not  dead— for  Truth  dies  not ; 

Yet  shalt  thou  rise  and  Justice  be  avenged ! 

The  stifled  air  portends  the  gathering  storm— 

Down  the  horizon  hangs  the  darkening  cloud. 

Its  swelling  folds  with  latent  lightnings  charged, 

iioll  up  the  Eastern  and  the  Western  sky ! 

0,  patience,  ye  despised  and  suffering  race, 

Thy  wrongs  shall  wake  the  vengeance  of  a  God, 

To  charge  with  wrath  the  firey  bolt  of  heaven, 

And  rend  the  fetters  from  thy  bleeding  limbs  ! 

Waterbury,  Vt.,  1857. 


DECISION   OF    JUDGE  TANEY  IN  THE  DKED- 
SCOTT  CASE. 

/  \  ne  thing  is  clear  and  proved  beyond  a  doubt, 

A  fact  which  wise  Judge  Taney's  just  found  out, 
That  men  of  color  are  not  men  but  brutes, 
Must  toil  and  sweat  while  others  eat  the  fruits. 
Whate'er  their  wrongs,  whatever  their  distress, 
Whipped,  scourged  and  tortured,  there  is  no  redress ; 
And  this  America,  which  boasts  a  name 
So  dear  to  freedom  and  unsullied  in  fame  ! 
From  the  tribunal  of  her  highest  law, 
Comes  the  decision  striking  us  with  awe. 
Down  falls  the  fabric  which  our  fathers  reared, 
Bought  with  their  suffering  by  their  blood  endeared, 
And  on  its  ruins  rises  to  our  shame, 
A  structure  bearing  slavery's  hated  name. 
Must  we  submit  to  such  a  vile  decree 
And  kiss  the  dust  upon  our  bended  knee  ? 
And  bow  our  necks  and  thus  most  meanly  cower 
To  tyrants  rule,  acknowledging  his  power  ? 


110  TANEY'S  DECISION. 

» 
No  !  let  us  speak  and  let  us  act  for  right, 

Strong  in  tbe  virtue  of  our  cause  the  might ; 
Judges  are  weak  and  truant  to  their  trust. 
Their  honor  bartered  for  their  worldly  lust. 
Then  let  us  on,  the  merit  of  our  cause 
Spurn  the  injustice  of  vile  man-made  laws. 
Eight  knows  not  color,  nor  can  wealth  control, 
We  pay  our  tribute  to  the  spotless  soul. 
Waterbury,  IV.,  I$o7. 


THE  UNDERGROUND  ItAILllOAD. 

\Tot  the  scream  of  locomotive, 
x  With  the  rich  luxurious  car, 
Thundering  onward  to  the  station, 

With  its  earth  resounding  jar; 
Not  the  pompous  livered  hireling 

Guides  thee  o'er  thy  noisless  track, 
But  strong  hands,  warm  hearts  that  fear  not, 

Falter  not,  and  look  not  back. 
What  the  man-made  law  that  bids  them 

Bind  the  fetters  on  the  slave  ? 
Shall  a  tyrant's  will  be  heeded, 

When  their  mission  is  to  save  ?  — 
Save  from  that  vile  curse,  degrading 

Both  oppressor  and  oppressed  ; 
In  thy  Godlike  purpose  aiding 

The  down-trodden  and  distressed. 
Onward  ever  !  look  not  backward 

To  the  gloomy  shadowy  past  ; 
Be  the  polar  star  thy  beacon, 

Freedom's  station  reached  at  last. 


lmi'ii,  April  28,  1866. 


BUItlAL  OF  THOMAS  GAlUiETT. 


Thomas  (jarrett,  the  humanitarian,  died  at  \\ilin- 
ington,  Delaware,  January,  1870,  at  the  age  of  72.  Be 
fore  the  Emancipation  Proclamation  lie  had  sent  for 
ward  twenty-seven  hundred  slaves  into  freedom.  At 
the  age  of  60,  he  was  tried  before  Judge  Taney  for  ab 
ducting  slaves  and  the  damages  awarded  swept  away 
all  his  property  ;  yet  he  worked  cheerily  on  for  down 
trodden  humanity.  Agreeable  to  a  promise  obtained  of 
him  the  year  before  he  was  borne  to  his  rest  by  the 
race  he  had  so  faithfully  served. 


1  >  ear  him  tenderly  to  rest  — 
*^Lay  his  body  gently  down, 
While  the  soul  that  warmed  his  breast, 
Marches  on  with  old  John  Brown  ! 


Bear  him  tenderly  to  rest- 
Nerveless  now  his  stalwart  arm  :- 

Once  it  served  the  poor  oppressed, 
Heady  to  defend  from  harm. 


PURIAL  OF  THOMAS  GARRETT.  113 

While  the  giant  Webster  pled 

To  renew  the  galling  band, 
Noble  hearted  Garrett  led 

Thousands  on  to  Freedom's  land. 


While  Taney  armed  with  Tyrant's  power, 
Gave  to  Tyrant's  hands  the  spoil, 

Wasting  in  a  single  hour, 
Fruits  of  weary  years  of  toil : 

Cheerful  still  and  strong  in  right, 

Heedless  of  tyrannic  laws, 
Toiled  he  ceaseless,  day  and  night, 

In  the  suffering  bondman's  cause. 

Bear  him  tenderly  to  rest — 

Lay  his  body  gently  down, 
Wliile  the  soul  that  warmed  his  breast, 

Marches  on  with  Old  John  Brown  ! 


15 


THE  T GUARDS. 


[Written  in  response  to  an  article  which  appeared 
in  the  Trempealeau  Representative  ridiculing  the 
"Galesville  Gravs." 


You  have   heard   of  the   Guards,    the   "Trempealeau 

Guards," 

Those  souls  burned  with  zeal  for  the  war: 
Enrolling  their  names  for  their  country's  defense, 
Like  an  eagle  that  plumeth  his  wings  to  go  hence. 
When  he  sceuteth  the  battle  afar. 


Drums  beat  and  fifes  played — banners  flapped  in  the 

breeze. 

And  many  a  'kerchief  waved  too  ; 
But  what  avail  'kerchiefs,  and  what  avail  tears  ! 
When  our  country's  in  peril,  the  dearest  of  dears 
Must  list  to  the  parting  adieu. 


So  thought  their  bold  captain,  the  Governor  wrote. 
And  begged  he'd  accept  the  brave-baud  : — 
"0  give  us  a  post  at  the  mouth  of  the  gun 
Where  blood  flows  in  brooks,  but  where  glory7  is  won 
When  steel  flashes  bright  hand  to  hand." 


THE  T GUAUDS.  115 

"And  yet,  it  were  well  for  formality's  sake, 

To  test  by  a  vote  who  will  go ; 

So  my  braves,  raise  your  hands : — One,  two,  ha  !  but 

two? 

And  those  steeped  in  whiskey !     Oh  what  shall  I  do  !" 
And  the  balance,  brave  boys  !  they  said  "No !" 

The  "Father  of  Waters"  still  rolls  to  the  sea — 

The  mountain's  still  washed  by  the  tide, 

And  the  Guards — where  are  they  in  their  glory  so  fair  ? 

We  ask,  and  the  echo  reverberates  "Where?" 

Alas  for  their  pomp  and  their  pride  ! 

May,  1861. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  BLACK  HOBSE  CAVALKY 


on  the  red  cap  hireling  crew  !'' 
Black  Horse  leader  said. 
"And  leave  their  bodies  a  blackened  muss 
Among  the  mangled  dead  !" 

"Their  muskets  they  have  just  discharged 

They're  weary  of  the  fray  : 
Charge  !  Charge  !   Virginia's  Chivalry  ! 

They'll  prove  an  easy  prey." 

Down  came  "Virginia's  Chivalry." 

Those  chosen  sous  of  Mars, 
Bearing  aloft  a  false  device, 

The  Union  Stripes  and  Stars. 


"Stand,"  said  the  captain  of  the  Zouaves, 
"Stand  to  the  latest  breath  !" 
"Each  sabre-bayonet  shall  seal 

A  treacherous  traitor's  death  !" 


CHARGE  OF  THE  BLACK  HORSE  CAVALRY.  117 

On  to  the  shock  the  Black  Horse  carne — 

On  dashed  they  in  their  might, 
And  many  a  horse  is  riderless 

Upon  the  held  of  tight. 

Then  high  the  muskets  thrown  in  air — 

Forth  leaps  the  gleaming  knife — 
"Remember  Ellsworth  "  shout  the  Zouaves, 

And  close  in  deadly  strife. 

Four  hundred  horsemen  rode  to  charge — 

Keturned  a  single  score ; 
The  rest,  Virginia's  boast  and  pride, 

Shall  ride  to  charge  no  more. 

But  from  that  reeking  battle  field, 

'Mid  smoke  and  crimson  nood, 
Hose  high  the  exultant  battle  cry 

Of  "ELLSWORTH  !"  "BLOOD  for  BLOOD  !" 


FREMONT. 

Til  freighted  breeze,  that  beareth  to  our  ears 

The  unwelcome  tidings,  "Fremont  is  removed  !" 
What  foul  offence,  "Path  Finder"  of  the  wild, 
Thus  to  receive  thy  country's  stern  rebuke  ? 
Hast  dared  to  think  and  act  a  freeman's  part, 
Unmindful  of  the  "politician's  tact," 
And  moving  forward  to  desired  results, 
Hast  left  thy  envious  rivals  in  the  rear. 
And  called  the  vengeance  from  high  places  down  ? 
"Incompetent?"  Where  hast  thou  ever  failed? 
Not  on  the  western  desert's  cheerless  waste 
When  grim  starvation  stared  thee  in  the  face — 
Not  on  the  Rocky  Mountain's  dizzy  peak 
Where  thou  unfold'st  the  glorious  Stripes  and  Stars 
Nor  did  thy  dauntless  spirit  even  quail 
Amid  the  snows  of  stern  Neveda's  Pass. 


FREMONT.  119 

Summoned  to  aid  thy  country  in  distress, 

Thou  answerd'st  promptly  to  the  patriot-call — 

Thy  life,  thy  fortune  freely  at  her  will, 

All  nobly  given  to  aid  the  sacred  cause. 

What  man  could  do,  hast  thou  not  nobly  done  ? — 

Armed  thy  own  men,  and  pressing  hotly  on 

The  foeman's  trail,  darest  him  to  combat :  when 

Comes  the  stern  mandate — "Give  up  thy  command  !" 

Then  marvel  not  that  men  to  thee  endeared, 

Throw  down  their  arms  and  swear  to  serve  but  thee. 

Hope  of  the  North  ;  and  of  the  West  the  pride, 
And  of  thy  country's  history  a  part — 
Fixed  to  its  past,  arid  with  its  future  joined — 
Beloved  at  home,  admired  of  every  land, 
Wherever  science  finds  its  votaries, 
And  worth  and  virtue  meet  their  just  reward, 
There  art  thou  known,  and  "only  known  to  fame." 

The  first  to  mark  thy  genius  and  thy  worth 
The  imortal  HUMBOLDT,  now  whose  sun  is  set, 
But  still  reflects  his  glory  over  earth. 
What  slanderous  tongue  dare  speak  thee  ill  ? 

What  hand 

Dare  pluck  a  Laurel  from  thy  well  earned  bays  ? 
Parched  be  that  tongue,  and  palsied  be  that  hand  ! 


120  FREMONT. 

Is  this  the  time 

For  foolish  strife  and  bickerings  for  place, 
When  foul  rebellion  wages  deadly  war, 
And  shakes  our  glorious  fabric  to  its  base 
When  envious  politician  plots  thy  fall. 
And  to  obtain  a  base,  a  sordid  end, 
Imperils  all  his  country's  weal  for  self, 
Lie  he  beneath  the  ruin  he  would  make ! 


NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING. 


TI appy  New  Year !  dear  readers,  patrons,  all ! 
•"Bright  gleam  the  sunlight  on  the  coming  year ! 
And  may  no  shadow  o'er  your  future  fall, 
No  sorrow  cause  a  sigh  or  start  a  tear. 

Back  o'er  the  past,  the  checkered  past  we  look 
A  varied  scene  of  happiness  and  woe ; 

Forth  to  the  future  now  a  seal-ed  book 

We  glance  with  trembling  hope  but  fear  to  know. 

How  hath  it  been,  dear  reader,  in  the  past 
The  twelve-month  now  forever  fled  away  ? 

Hath  sorrow  o'er  thy  home  'a  shadow  cast, 
Turning  to  darkness  once  the  light  of  day  ? 

Oh  War,  grim  War !  How  its  relentless  hand 
Makes  desolate  fore'er  the  hearth,  the  heart ! 

And  scattering  misery  broadcast  o'er  the  land 
Rendest  the  ties  of  brotherhood  apart. 

16 


T22  NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING. 

Still  must  it  rage  till  man  shall  deign  to  heed 
The  moral  lesson.  Freedom  of  the  race — 

Who  sows  the  wind,  proclaims  the  sacred  creed, 
Shall  garner  in  the  whirlwind  in  its  place. 

And  we  are  reaping  of  that  harvest  now— 

The  retribution  of  our  former  sin  : 
We  must  be  patient  and  in  meekness  bow. 

Until  the  fearful  harvest's  garnered  in. 

Aye,  many  a  sacrifice  for  Freedom  made. 

Stands  out  upon  the  records  of  our  dead, 
Of  those  who  far  from  home  and  friends  are  laid 

Where  for  their  country's  weal  they  fought  and  bled. 

Hold  up  the  scroll,  the  sacred  scroll  to  view ! 

Count  it  not  weakness  if  a  tear  should  fall 
For  those  brave  souls,  the  tried,  the  ever  true. 

Who  for  their  country  gave  their  lives,  their  all. 


We  seem  to  see  them  mid  the  battle's  smoke, 
The  clash  of  arms,  the  cannon's  deafening  roar. 

The  tramp  of  hoofs,  the  glittering  sabre's  stroke 
Begrimed  with  smoke,  bespattered  with  their  gore. 


NK\V  YEAR'S  GREKTING.  123 

We  seem  to  see  the  mother's  falling  tear — 
We  seem  to  hear  the  widow's  piercing  wail ; 

The  sister's  anguish  for  a  brother  dear 
Is  floating  mournfully  upon  the  gale. 


And  pained  we  ask  "Is  this  the  price  we  pay 

For  others  sins  committed  long  ago  ? 
Will  nothing  wipe  the  damning  stain  away, 

But  blood  and  tears,  but  anguish,  pain  and  woe  ?" 

'The  crime  was  great,'  we  seem  to  hear  replied, 
When  man  for  gain  his  fellow  man  enslaved, 

Severe  the  assay  when  the  ore  is  tried, 

The  dross  expunged,  the  priceless  metal  saved. 

"0  patient  wait,  the  time  is  not  afar, 

When  freedom  o'er  the  land  shall  reign  supreme ! 
The  bow  of  promise  from  the  smoke  of  war 

Eises  triumphant  gilded  with  his  beam. 

"And  'white  winged  peace'  shall  hover  o'er  the  land 
To  bless  as  nation  ne'er  wras  blest  before, 

While  plenty  strewn  abroad  with  bounteous  hand, 
Should  make  our  joy  complete  for  evermore. 


MUSINGS. 

4  ml  still  the  dreary  North  winds  blow— 
A  "-Across  the  prairie  drifts  the  snow  ; 
But  cheerful  is  the  ruddy  glow 

Upon  the  social  hearth  ; 
Without  1  hear  the  gay  bells'  chime. 
Hailing  with  joy  the  "sleighing  time," 
Rise  high  the  tones  of  mirth. 


And  free  from  time-corroding  care, 
The  laugh  of  merry  blithsome  fair 
Kings  clearly  on  the  sparkling  air, 

As  dashing  on  they  go  ; 
0  may  their  lives  e'er  be  as  bright— 
As  joyous  as  they  are  to-night, 

While  chatting  with  the  beau  ! 


But  is  there  naught  to  mar  our  joy, 
To  give  our  happiness  alloy, 
And  meditations  sweet  annoy 

With  thoughts  of  grief  or  pain  ? 
0,  Winter  brings  not  joy  to  all ; 
Through  shattered  door  and  creviced  wall 

It  sings  a  cheerless  strain. 


.  MUSINGS.  125 

How  fares  it  with  the  patriot  band, 
Who  left  their  friends  and  home  to  stand 
A  bulwark  for  their  native  land 

Against  their  country's  foes  ; 
Who,  on  the  tented  fields  afar, 
Feel  the  vicissitudes  of  war, 

A  ud  its  attendant  woes  ? 


While  plenty  in  our  homes  is  stored, 
And  lavish  is  the  festive  board, 
Shall  we  like  heartless  miser  hoard 

And  clutch  the  paltry  pelf '/ 
Is  there  in  life  no  nobler  aim 
Than  sordid,  gold  wrought,  glittering  fame, 

Which  liveth  but  in  self  ? 


0  give,  give  freely  what  thou  hast, 
Believe  the  suffering  and  oppressed, 
And  blessing  as  thou  would'st'be  blessed 

Receive  the  priceless  boon ; 
0  speak  thy  erring  neighbor  fair ; 
Each  hath  as  much  as  he  can  bear 

Of  trials,  all  his  own. 


RAISING  THE  OLD  FLAG  AT  CHARLESTON 


T  ift  up  the  banner  from  the  dust, 

And  plant  on  Sumter's  battered  wall 
The  dear  old  Standard ;  let  it  wave 
As  erst  it  waved  ere  Sumter's  fall ! 


Shake  to  the  breeze  the  starry  folds, 
Disgraced  by  traitor's  rule  no  more, 

And  let  the  shout  of  triumph  rise 
As  it  hath  risen  ne'er  before ! 


For  Slavery's  doom  is  written  clear 
In  letters  which  the  world  may  see  ; 

The  time  is  hastening — it  is  here, 
Wherein  our  land  is  truly  free. 


RAISING  THE  OLD  FLAG    OF  CHARLESTON.  127 

0,  Soldier-veterans  !  Patriots  true  ! 

Whose  blood  bath  stained  the  battle-field, 
Upon  thy  features  stern  we  view 

Spirits  that  quail  not,  never  yield. 

Great  is  the  price  that  ye  have  paid, 

Aye,  fearful  is  the  sacrifice  ; 
But  from  the  grave  where  Error  sleeps 

Shall  Virtue,  Truth  and  Freedom  rise. 


Then  raise  the  Standard  from  the  dust, 
Dishonored  by  a  traitor's  hand, 

And  let  the  dear  old  banner  wave, 
O'er  Slavery's  grave  and  Freedom's  land. 


,A  LEGEND  OF  SMUGGLEE'S  NOTCH. 

Tn  a  wild  and  narrow  glen, 

Far  removed  from  haunts  of  men, 
Where  old  Mansfield's  summit  high, 
Seemed  to  pierce  the  azure  sky  ; 
Where  upon  the  northern  side, 
Sterling's  crags  with  Mansfield's  vied, 
Eising  perpendicular, 
Capped  with  stinted  growth  of  fir, 
Stretched  their  branches  to  the  east, 
Like  the  arms  of  prophet  priest ; 
Where  the  eagle's  piercing  scream, 
Mingled  with  the  mountain  stream, 
That  from  out  its  rugged  base 
Leap't  and  sparkled  on  its  race 
Down  its  rude  and  rocky  bed. 
Singing  wildly  as  it  sped ; 
Now  through  gorges  dark  and  deep- 
Now  where  dank  brown  mosses  creep ; 
Now  o'er  boulders  huge  and  gray, 


SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH.  1*29 

Laughing  babbling  on  its  way. 
Here,  where  wider  grows  the  vale, 

* 

Dwelt  the  hero  of  rny  tale, 
In  a  cabin  wild  and  rude, 
Mid  the  mountain  solitude. 
In  his  eyes,  so  dark  and  deep, 
Silent  sorrows  seemed  to  creep  ; 
Sorrows  which  the  bosom  swell, 
Sorrows  which  tongue  may  not  tell. 
Not  alone  in  cabin  rude 
Dwelt  he  in  the  solitude  ; 
For  a  wife  and  daughter  fair 
Tried  to  comfort  him  and  share 
His  rude  home,  and  with  a  smile 
Many  a  lonesome  hour  beguile. 


On  a  sultry  night  in  June, 
In  the  heavens  no  stars  or  moon 
Shone  with  mellow  light  to  cheer 
The  rude  solitude  and  drear ; 
But  a  darkening  thunder  cloud 
Wrapped  old  Mansfield  like  a  shroud. 
Now  and  then  the  lightning's  glow 
And  the  thunder  muttered  low  : 
17 


130  SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH. 

Now  a  boding  stillness  fell 

On  the  forest  like  a  spell 

That  should  waken  in  an  hour 

To  the  tempest's  fearful  power. 

In  the  cottage  on  that  night 

Shone  a  solidary  light 

Through  the  narrow  window  pane. 

On  the  forest's  dark  domain. 

You  might  see  it  from  afar. 

Like  a  single  lonely  star, 

Where  all  else  was  compassed  round 

With  a  blackness  most  profound. 

O'er  the  tire,  with  patient  zeal, 

The  wife  prepared  the  evening  meal. 

With  eheerful  smile  and  noiseless  tread 

And  dainty  hand  the  daughter  spread 

The  table  for  their  humble  fare 

In  which  the  trio  were  to  share  ; 

While  silently  the  moody  sire 

Looked  gloomily  into  the  lire. 

As  if  to  read  within  its  glow7 

The  sequel  of  his  present  woe. 

"Father,  a  storm  is  gathering  now  ; 

See  yon  dark  cloud  on  Mansfield's  brow. 


SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH.  131 

See,  see  the  vivid  lightning  leap 

Down  yonder  precipice  so  steep. 

And  hark  !  the  thunder's  heavy  sound 

That  seems  to  shake  the  mountains  round  ; 

See,  see  how  angry,  much  I  fear 

A  dreadful  tempest  will  be  here." 

"Daughter,  dost  fear  the  tempest's  power 

That  comes   and  passes  in  an  hour, 

And  leaveth  nature  calm,  serene, 

As  if  its  wrath  had  never  been '? 

I  like  this  elemental  strife  ; 

It  wakes  from  death,  it  giveth  life  ; 

Bespeaks  a  wise,  creative  plan 

That  bringeth  only  good  to  man." 

"Father,  if  all  be  for  our  good, 

(Were  it  but  rightly  understood,) 

Why  do  we  thus  unequal  share, 

If  good  be  equal  everywhere  ? 

Why  should  not  you,  whose  faultless  life, 

Free  from  all  selfish,  worldly  strife. 

Be  happiest  of  the  happy  few — 

True  to  yourself  to  others  true  ? 

Yet  well  I  know  that  even  now7, 

There  is  a  sadness  on  your  brow." 


152  SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH. 

"Daughter,  not  all  that  doth  appear. 

Is  truly  known  of  mortals  here. 

A  dozen  years  have  passed  away. 

Yes,  just  a  dozen  years  to-day. 

Since  I've  a  stranger  been  to  joy ; 

'Twas  then  we  lost  our  own  dear  boy. 

You  were  too  young  and  could  not  know 

The  agony,  the  hopeless  woe 

That  pierced  our  hearts  like  cruel  steel. 

And  left  a  wound  time  could  not  heal. 

He  was  a  lad  of  fifteen  years, 

True,  lithe  and  strong,  he  knew  no  fears. 

'Twas  through  my  love  of  lawless  gain 

He  lost  his  life,  and  I  remain 

A  wreck  of  what  I  might  have  been  ; 

A  victim  of  remorse  and  sin." 

While  yet  he  spoke  a  vivid  flash 

^Yith  instantaneous  thunder  crash,— 

The  wind  came  roaring  down  the  gorge 

As  if  a  fiend  were  set  at  large  ! 

To  scourge  all  nature  in  his  wrath, 

And  leave  destruction  in  his  path. 

And  louder  yet  the  tempest  roared — 

And  fiercer  yet  the  torrents  poured 


SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH.  133 

Through  roof  of  bark  and  batten  door 

And  run  along  the  cabin  floor. 

Out  through  the  window  as  they  gaze, 

Forest  and  mountain  seem  ablaze. 

Mountain  to  mountain  back  again 

Echoed  the  pandemonium  din. 

The  mountain  stream,  now  swollen  wide, 

Bore  onward  on  its  turbid  tide 

Huge  logs  with  many  an  upturned  tree, 

Of  mountain  slides  the  dense  debris ; 

Now  with  accelerated  force 

Swept  all  before  it  in  its  course. 


As  fiercest  human  passion's  power, 

Lives  but  a  transitory  hour, 

So  nature  in  her  fiercest  mood, 

Exhausts  her  wrath  and  seems  subdued. 

The  storm's  wild  tumult  now  had  ceased, 

Faint  and  yet  fainter  down  the  east 

The  thunder  rolled  ;  the  lightning's  glare 

The  wind  had  ceased  and  overhead 

Showed  dimly  through  the  freshened  air. 

The  heavens  with  beauteous  stars  were  spread. 

''Throw  up  the  window,  daughter  dear, 


134  SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH. 

The  storm  is  passed,  the  air  is  clear ; 

The  odor  of  the  forest  trees 

Comes  grateful  in  upon  the  breeze. 

But  hark  !  I  hear  or  thought  I  heard 

Some  sound,  perhaps  the  note  of  bird. 

No,  'tis  no  bird,  list,  list  again, 

I  heard  it  then  so  very  plain ! " 

"Father,  I  heard  it  then  so  clear. 

It  came  upon  my  listening  ear. 

It  seemed  so  like  a  human  call. 

Up  where  old  Mansfield's  naked  wall. 

So  high  and  perpendicular, 

Shows  plain  between  those  clumps  of  fir, 

No  human  being  could  abide 

Such  night  as  this  on  mountain  side." 

"It  is  a  human  voice,  you're  right. 

Put  in  the  window,  dear,  the  light. 

Some  hunter  has  been  led  astray 

In  quest  of  game  and  lost  his  way." 

"I'll  light  a  torch  and  try  to  guide 

Him  down  the  rugged  mountain  side." 

"Oh  father,  you  will  let  me  go 

To  bear  you  company,  I  know. 

I  know  so  well  the  path  to  take 


SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH.  135 

That  leads  up  to  the  mountain  lake. 

Those  little  flowers  and  mosses  green 

I  found  far  up  the  wild  ravine, 

Where  mountain  brook  with  dashing  spray 

Comes  bounding  down  the  slippery  way." 

Again  the  wild  halloo  they  hear ; — 

Nearer  it  came  and  yet  more  near. 

The  sound  came  down  the  gorge  and  then 

llesounded  through  the  mountain  glen. 

With  torch  in  hand  the  father  led, 

The  daughter  followed  ;  on  they  sped 

To  meet  the  stranger,  bid  him  share 

Their  sheltering  roof  and  humble  fare. 

The  torchlight  grotesque  shadows  made 

Along  the  forest  colonade, 

Where  branches  interlocking  spread 

A  venial  canopy  o'er  head, 

Where  hung  full  many  a  rich  festoon, 

The  gorgeous  drapery  of  June, 

Now  fragrant  from  the  recent  shower, 

Was  meet  for  wood  nymph's  sylvan  bower. 

A  mile  through  the  deep  forest  passed, 

They  reach  the  mountain  gorge  at  last, 

With  wild  halloo  the  father  swung 


186  SNUOOLEK'S  NOTCH. 

His  torch  on  high.     An  answer  rung 
Down  the  ravine  so  loud  and  clear, 
They  knew  the  wanderer  was  near ; 
And  starting  on  with  quickened  pace, 
They  met  the  stranger  face  to  face. 
He  stood  before  them  in  the  light 
Drenched  with  the  storm,  a  sorry  sight. 
He  bore  a  ritle  in  his  hand— 
A  portfolio  with  a  band 
Suspended  from  his  shoulder  hung. 
His  form  seemed  manly  fair  and  young. 
"Thanks,  many  thanks/'  he  kindly  said 
Unto  the  father  ;  to  the  maid 
He  courteous  bowed.     "But  for  your  light 
I  should  have  passed  a  lonesome  night 
Far  up  the  rugged  mountain  side. 
Soon  as  your  signal  I  espied, 
I  started  down  the  mountain  brook, 
But  slowly,  for  great  care  it  took 
To  keep  its  steep  and  slippery  bed." 
"  'Tis  fortunate,"  the  father  said, 
"You  are  unhurt,  for  e'en  by  day 
It  is  a  very  dangerous  way." 
"But  sir  we  must  not  stop  to  talk 


SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH  187 

We  have  about  a  mile  to  walk 
To  reach  our  humble  cabin,  where 
You  shall  be  welcome  to  its  fare ; 
For  wet  and  weary  you  must  be." 
"Kind  sir,  your  hospitality 
I  will  accept,  and  may  you  find 
Friends  as  unselfish  and  as  kind, 
As  you,  a  stranger,  are  to  me. 
"But  sir,  I  hope  you  ne'er  may  be 
In  such  great  need. — I'll  not  delay." 
And  soon  the  three  were  on  their  way, 
Quick  passing  down  the  mountain  glen, 
Were  at  the  cabin  door  again. 
Within  a  cheerful  fire  did  burn, 
Where  supper  waited  their  return. 
They  brought  dry  suit  with  kindly  care, 
And  bade  him  welcome  to  their  fare, 
The  supper  ended,  round  the  fire, 
They  sat  to  talk  ere  they  retire. 
"Some  years  ago"  the  stranger  said 
"My  father  in  illegal  trade 
Lived  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Champlain, 
Kept  there  the  illy  gotten  gain 
Brought  by  a  lawless  smuggling  band. 
18 


138  SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH. 

One  night,  while  trying  goods  to  land. 
We  were  surprised.     They  bid  us  stay  ; 
We  heeded  not,  but  rowed  away. 
Some  pistol  shots  were  fired  from  shore — 
I  felt  one  pang  and  knew  no  more 
Till  some  hours  later,  when  I  found 
Myself  on  ship-board,  westward  bound, 
A  pistol  ball  had  pierced  my  head ; 
At  first,  they  took  me  up  for  dead  : 
But  probing,  found  by  lucky  chance. 
The  ball  had  struck  with  sidelong  glance. 
No  serious  injury  was  done."- 
"I  am  thy  father,  thou,  my  son ! 
Thy  mother  and  thy  sister  dear — 
A  happy  family  is  here  ! 
"Our  pleasure  seemed  forever  tied  : — 
We  mourned  our  darling  son  as  dead." 
My  pen  would  fail  to  paint  the  joy 
That  welcomed  home  the  long-lost  boy. 
The  mother  said  'mid  joyful  tears, 
"Where  have  you  been  these  weary  years 
My  darling ;  are  things  what  they  seem, 
Or  is  this  happiness  a  dream '?" 
"0,  it  is  real,  mother  dear, 


SMI -UGT/KR'S  NOTCH  189 

I  have  been  absent,  I  am  here" 
"And  now  I  will  commence  again 
And  brietly  make  my  story  plain." 
"On  board  the  ship,  among  the  rest, 
A  family  was  moving  West. 
A  son  of  cultivated  mind. 
Of  manners  courteous,  refined, 
Soon  won  my  sympathies,  and  hence 
I  told  him  all  in  confidence. 
It  were  not  safety  to  go  back,— 
The  officers  my  steps  would  track. 
He  urged  me  strongly  to  go  west, 
And  with  his  invitation,  pressed 
Me  to  accept  a  trifling  loan, 
To  use  it  freely  as  my  own. 
He  had  a  contract  to  survey 
Some  Western  lands  ;  I  could  repay 
Him,  and  could  earn  much  more, 
By  serving  on  surveyor's  corps. 
He  kindly  offered  to  impart 
To  me  instruction  in  the  art. 
This  he  performed  and  in  the  end 
Was  my  instructor,  patron,  friend  ; 
All  that  I  am,  or  hope  to  be, 


140  .  SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH. 

Is  due  ^3  his  generosity. 
I  have  a  beauteous  Western  home. 
With  open  arms  I  bid  you  come. 
Leave  past  mistakes,  regrets  behind, 
Return  with  me  and  you  shall  liud 
A  rest  for  your  declining  years. 
To  compensate  for  former  tears. 
My  darling  sister  there  shall  find 
Instruction  for  her  growing  mind." 
"And  now  you  must  explain  my  dear. 
The  providence  that  brings  you  here." 
"Yes,  mother  dear,  where'er  I'd  roam, 
I  ne'er  forgot  my  childhood  home. 
Those  parents  dear  I  left  behind. 
Were  ever  foremost  in  my  mind. 
These  thoughts  so  haunted  me.  one  day 
Found  me  embarked  upon  niy  way. 
Two  days  ago  set  foot  upon 
My  native  State  at  Burlington. 
There,  by  some  lucky  chance  or  fate, 
I  met  Tim  Sykes  the  smuggler's  mate, 
He  seemed  surprised  at  what  I  said, 
For  all  had  thought  me  long  since  dead. 
He  said  my  parents  went  away 


sM(<'r<;u;i;'s  NOTCH  141 

Directly  after  the  affray. 

Said  he,  'I  think  they  now  reside 

Somewhere  on  Mansfield's  eastern  side.' 

"That  day  I  wandered  down  the  lake, 

Resolving  on  what  course  to  take  ; 

With  sketch-book,  rifle,  hunting  knife 

Companions  of  my  forest  life. 

For  much  I  wished  to  view  again 

Those  scenes,  where  pleasures  mixed  with  pain, 

Grow  fresher  with  advancing  years, 

Now  waking  smiles,  now  causing  tears. 

Time  had  wrought  changes,  it  is  true, 

But  nature  seemeth  ever  new. 

With  these  thoughts  passing  in  my  mind, 

I  sought  without  delay  to  find 

Those  whom  my  heart  held  ever  dear. 

That  must  explain  why  I  am  here." 

"But  brother  you've  not  told  us  yet — 

I  hope  that  you  will  not  forget 

To  tell  us  how  you  saw  our  light 

Far  up  the  mountain  in  the  night." 

Well,  darling  sister,  you  must  know 

I  learned  the  way  long,  long,    ago. 

Its  steep  wild  paths  I've  ne'er  forgot, 


142  SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH. 

Familiar  each  romantic  spot 

Upon  its  rude  and  rugged  form  : 

But  never  in  such  fearful  storm 

Have  I  been  caught.     I'd  stopped  to  take 

A  sketch  beside  the  mountain  lake, 

When  suddenly,  and  unaware, 

A  dense  black  vapor  filled  the  air. 

I  seemed  enveloped  in  a  cloud, 

Where  lightnings  leaped  and  thunders  loud, 

Were  underneath,  above,  around, 

Filling  my  ears  with  stunning  sound. 

I  sought  the  shelter  of  a  rock. 

When  instantly  I  felt  a  shock. 

The  earth  gave  way  beneath  my  feet. 

When  rocks  and  trees  and  shrubs  complete. 

Went  sliding  down  the  mountain  side. 

Leaving  a  chasm  deep  and  wide 

Behind,  while  everything  before 

Was  crushed  with  most  terrific  roar. 

As  on  I  went,  with  bated  breath. 

Expecting  every  instant,  death, 

A  ponderous  rock  upon  one  side 

Caught  on  its  way  the  moving  slide, 

And  held  it  firmly  in  its  course, 


SMUGGLER'S  NOTCH  143 

While  breaking  with  resistless  force 

Went  crashing  o'er  a  precipice, 

Into  a  seething  wild  abyss. 

I  stood  upon  the  arrested  part 

Quite  safe  and  with  most  thankful  heart. 

The  storm  soon  ceased,  the  stars  came  out. 

1  climbed  a  tree  to  look  about, 

When  down  the  valley  on  the  right 

I  saw  the  glimmer  of  a  light. 

I  started  down  the  steep  descent, 

Grasping  the  bushes  as  I  went, 

And  met  >  ou,  as  you  know  full  well, 

With  torch  to  guide  me  down  the  dell. 


How  fleet  the  happy  hours  sped 
Past  mid-night  ere  they  went  to  bed 
To  dream  of  kindred  ties  renewed, 
Of  pleasure  by  remorse  subdued. 
For  who  hath  ever  gone  astray, 
And  found  again  the  better  way, 
That  doth  not  look  regretful  back 
To  view  his  former  devious  track. 


THE  CENTENNIAL. 

\\  7e  hail  with  pride  and  joy  the  morn 

On  which  a  century  is  born 
Unto  our  nation  wise  and  strong, 
Whose  works  are  worthy  tale  or  song. 
Born  not  of  slowly  creeping  years 
That  bring  but  common  joys  and  tears, 
But  fraught  with  deeds  that  mark  an  age 
That  lingers  on  historic  page. 

As  o'er  the  century  we  glance, 

To  note  our  nation's  proud  advance, 

We  seem  to  see  those  patriots  old, 

Firm  for  their  rights,  unswerved  by  gold, 

Emerging  from  the  British  rule, 

With  stern  resolve  and  courage  cool, 

A  brave,  determined  little  band, 

They  stood  where  few  would  dare  to  stand, 

And  won  the  freedom  of  our  land. 


CENTENNIAL.  145 

As  household  word,  endeared  each  name ; 

Mori-  sacred  than  historic  fame. 

Brave  Washington  our  country's  boast, 

And  all  the  patriotic  host, 

Who  sowed  the  seed  in  freedom's  soil— 

We  reap  the  harvest  of  their  toil. 

We  need  not  name  them  one  by  one, 

Or  count   the   deeds  that  each  hath  done. 

How  Henry's  scathing,  fiery  words, 

Wrought  more  than  bullet,  shell  or  swords  ; 

How  Franklin's  counsel  and  his  pen 

Were  more  than  hosts  of  arm-ed  men. 

Each  household  knows  the  tale  full  well ; 

Each  school- boy  can  the  story  tell. 

They  lived,  are  dead,  their  memory  bright, 

Shall  linger  as  a  beacon  light. 

Their's  was  the  hardship,  ours  the  meed 

Of  well  spent  life  and  glorious  deed. 

What  blessings  now  on  every  hand, 
To  our  free  Democratic  land ; 
Where  varied  and  extensive  soil 
Invite  our  enterprising  toil— 

Ifl 


146  CENTENNIAL. 

.    And  arts  and  letters  ever  find 

Free  scope  for  the  progressive  uiiiid. 

A  hundred  years  !  how  short  a  time 

To  mark  a  progress  so  sublime  ! 

The  old  slow  coach  has  passed  away — 

We  hail  a  new  and  brighter  day. 

We  look  around  on  every  hand, 

Steam  rules  by  sea,  steam  rules  by  land. 

From  land  to  land,  across  the  sea, 

We  hold  a  conversation  free— 

We  catch  the  flash  of  sunbeam  dyes, 

And  bind  the  shadow  ere  it  flies. 


In  literature  we  hear  it  said, 

"The  great  are  numbered  with  the  dead." 

"In  poetry  who  ere  can  hope 

"To  vie  with  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Pope  ?" 

"In  graceful  prose  who  can  compare 

"With  Paniel,  Addison  or  Blair?" 

All  honor  to  the  immortal  dead 

Whose  wealth  of  heart  or  strength  of  head 

Has  left  them  monuments  sublime 

To  mark  the  progress  of  their  time. 


CRXTKNXIAL.  147 

It  is  not  ours  to  dim  their  name 
Or  pluck  one  laurel  from  their  fame, 
And  yet,  we  feel,  as  well  we  may, 
A  pride  in  those  who  grace  our  day  : 
Longfellow,  Bryant,  Whittier, — 
Names  that  the  nation's  bosom  stir ; 
Webster,  Calhouu,  Benton,  Clay, 
With  the  lamented  Agassiz, 
And  many  other  names  beside 
In  which  we  feel  an  honest  pride — 
Names  that  shall  stand  the  test  of  age, 
And  ever  grace  our  history's  page. 

Broad  as  our  land,  wide  as  our  fame, 

And  justly  honored  as  our  name, 

Let  us  not  rest  upon  our  bays 

And  take  to  heedless,  careless  ways. 

A  ponderous  ship,  our  ship  of  State, 

And  perilous  to  navigate. 

Wide  and  diverse  our  wants,  and  hence, 

The  need  of  broad  intelligence ; 

And  more  than  this,  we  need  such  men 

To  rule  our  nation  now,  as  when 

We  started  on  our  proud  career. 

With  single  purpose,  hearts  sincere, 


148  CENTENNIAL. 


They  labored  for  our  country's  weal. 
The  "salary  grab"  and  "public  steal" 
Peculiar  to  our  modern  time, 
Would  have  been  counted  then  a  crime. 
They  sought  not  office  but  were  sought ; 
Not  as  at  present,  sold  and  bought, 
And  clothed  with  office  at  a  price 
That  covers  ignorance  and  vice. 

'Tis  ours  to  check  this  growing  curse — 

'Tis  ours  to  guard  the  nation's  purse 

'Gainst  plotting  politician's  snare. 

Reform,  retrenchment,  everywhere 

Should  be  our  aim,  and  honest  men 

To  till  our  offices  again, 

That  when  our  children's  children  see 

The  next  Centennial,  it  may  be 

As  marked  in  progress  as  our  own — 

The  brightest  that  the  world  hath  known. 


POEMS. 

BY 
HANNAH  GALE  LUCE. 

THE  GEEEN  MOUNTAINS. 

Oh,  love  ye  not  our  mountains, 
Our  mountains  old  and  grand  ! 
Clad  ever  in  their  robes  of  green — 

The  pride  of  our  dear  land. 
The  Switzer  loves  those  Alpine  peaks, 

Where  sweep  the  clouds  along,— 
So  worship  we  our  own  green  hills, 
And  cherish  them  in  song. 

« 

And  were  I  in  a  foreign  land, 

'Mid  classic  halls  of  Rome, 
I'd  turn  from  all  to  fondly  gaze 

Upon  my  mountain  home. 
I'd  see  among  my  native  hills, 

The  cottage  'neath  the  trees — 
The  tall  elms  waving  gracefully 

To  music  in  the  breeze. 


f 

150  THE  GREEK  MOUNTAINS. 

The  bright  Winooski  flowing  near. 

Through  waving  meadows  green— 
The  lilacs  where  the  robins  sing, 

When  earliest  flowers  are  seen. 
The  distant  church  spire  bathed  in  light, 

Like  shaft  of  burnished  gold — 
The  green  where  roseate  children  play. 

As  in  the  davs  of  old. 


Old  Mansfield  rears  his  rugged  face, 

Upturned  to  meet  the  sky  ; 
And  south,  the  "Couching  Lion"  lifts 

His  beetling  crags  on  high. 
Full  many  an  ancient  legend  wild, 

I've  heard  the  aged  tell, 
Of  precious  ores,  in  caverns  hid 

And  kept  by  mystic  spell. 

r 

An  Allen's  dust  reposes  now, 

Near  by  the  quiet  lake  ; 
No  more  those  brave  "Green  Mountain  boys," 

The  forest  echoes  wake. 
But  treasured  be,  in  every  heart, 

The  love  it  bears  for  them — 
Each  mountain  seems  their  monument — 

The  winds,  their  requiem. 


THE  GREEN  MOTNTAINS.  151 


And  holy  freedom  ever  finds, 

Among  our  mountains  bold, 
A  home,  unstained  by  tyrant's  hand, 

Unbought  by  "sordid  gold." 
We  hail  as  man,  the  high  and  low, 

Or  black  or  white,  the  same ; — 
We  have  no  "Wise  Judge  Taneys"  liere, 

To  raise  the  blush  of  shame. 


Yes,  dear  to  us,  our  mountains  green— 

The  home  of  virtues  rare — 
And  dear  their  noble  hearted  sons. 

And  daughters  good  and  fair. 
When  my  freed  spirit  seeks  a  home 

Above  all  earthly  ills, 
Here  may  my  humble  grave  be  found, 

Aniid  our  verdant  hills  ! 

Waterlmry,  Vt.  April  13,  1857. 


SPIHIT  VOICES. 

hey  are  calling  ns,  ay!  calling, 
And  their  mystic  tones  we  bear. 
Though  they  speak  110  earth-born  language. 
Sounding  harshly  on  the  ear  ; 

But  it  is  a  thrilling  music- 
Sweeping  o'er  the  human  soul, 

With  a  power  that  far  outreacbeth 
Everv  effort  of  control. 


First  we  bear  them  in  our  childhood 
When  we  clasp  a  beauteous  flower — 
When  we  list  to  tuneful  song-bird. 
Hid  within  some  garden  bower. 


SPIRIT   V01CKS.  153 


When  the  bees~amid  the  clover, 
Hum  through  all  the  summer  day, 

And  the  air  with  balm  is  laden. 
From  the  fragrant  new-mown  hay  ; 

Then  we  know  that  spirit  voices 
Thrill  each  fibre  of  the  heart. 

Till  it  swelleth  with  the  rapture, 
Which  their  loving  tones  impart. . 

Quickly  comes  a  nameless  yearning 
For  a  home  more  pure  than  this, 

And  our  little  hearts  uprising, 
For  a  moment  taste  its  bliss. 

Years  speed  on,  and  joys  deceitful 
All  our  devious  paths  beset, 

But,  at  times,  we  hear  the  breathing 
Of  the  spirit  voices  yet. 

When  we  grasp  the  hand  of  friendship, 
Or  fond  love  the  bosom  thrills, 

Whisper  they  of  bliss  enduring, 
Free  from  all  life's  varied  ills. 
20 


154  SPIRIT  VOICES. 


To  the  Christian  calm  and  holy 

Come  they  on  the  wings  of  light- 
Beams  his  eye  with  joy  and  gladness 
Thrills  his  heart  with  sweet  delight. 


They  are  calling,  ever  calling ! 

And  their  gentle  tones  we  hear — 
Sweeter  strains,  or  more  harmonious. 

Never  fell  on  mortal  ear  ! 


LINES. 


"On  Beechy  Island,  were  found  the  graves  of  three 
young  men,  who  went  out  with  Sir  John  Franklin,  in 
his  unfortunate  expedition." 


IT'ar  away  in  snowy  regions, 
1  Brave  young  hearts  have  found  a  grave, 
Where  the  fierce  and  cutting  north-wind 
Turns  to  ice  the  briny  wave. 

i 

Went  they  from  bright  English  firesides, 
Where  loved  friends  and  kindred  dwelt — 

Where  a  father  gave  his  blessing, 
And,  in  prayer,  a  mother  knelt. 


Or.  through  untold  dangers  speeding — 
O'er  broad,  trackless,  icy  fields. 

( )n  they  passed  with_hearts  unfailing, 
And  a  will  that  never  yields. 


15H  LINES. 

Worn  at  last,  by  cold  aiid  tempest- 
Winter-  bound  cm  that  bleak  isle,— 

Sank  they  by  fatigue  and  sickness- 
Near  them  beamed  no  kindred  smile. 

No  sweet  voice  of  gentle  sister — 
No  kind  mother's  prayer  of  love. 

Breathing  all  her  deep  affection — 
Pointing  to  a  home  above. 

Ah  !  perchance  a  prayer  and  message 
For  each  distant  friend  were  given — 

What  that  prayer  and  what  that  farewell 
Now  is  onlv  known  in  Heaven. 


How  soul-thrilling  were  the  tidings 
Wafted  to  that  English  shore, 

None  may  know,  save  him  who  mourneth 

For  the  loved  that  come  no  more  ! 
Watprbiiry.  1867. 


THE  NIGHT  MY  MOTHER  DIED. 


nnhere  was  a  night  I  shall  never  forget, 
"-  Though  forgetting  all  else  beside, 

For  deep  in  my  heart  is  the  impress  set — 
'Twas  the  night  that  my  mother  died. 

The  stars  gleamed  brightly  and  coldly  above, 
And  winter  winds  mournfully  sighed — 

A  star  set  forever — the  star  of  my  love, 
On  the  night  when  my  mother  died. 

Thro'  years  of  toil  and  care  she  had  striven 

And  her  faith  was  sorely  tried ; 
But  the  Angel  of  Peace  came  down  from  Heaven 

On  the  night  that  my  mother  died. 


158  THE  NIGHT  MY  MOTHER  DIED. 


She  spake  of  the  laud  where  the  weary  rest. 
And  told  us  the  Lord  would  provide  ; 

But  Oh  !  the  deep  anguish  my  spirit  oppressed, 
On  the  night  that  my  mother  died. 

Years  have  nown  by,  since  that  grief-laden  hour. 

And  borne  me  on  life's  changing  tide ; 
Yet  memory  turns  with  soul-thrilling  power. 

To  the  night  that  my  mother  died. 

I  know  that  in  Heaven  her  spirit  is  blest, 
Where  sorrow  no  more  can  betide. — 

0,  may  I  yet  enter  those  "mansions  of  rest," 
And  forget  the  sad  night  that  she  died ! 


"LITTLE  JENNIE." 

A  PICTURE  FEOM  MEMORY. 

/  \  ft  I  see  a  little  maiden, 

Just  as  when  one  morn  in  Spring, 
Came  she  to  our  cottage  door-step, 
Holy,  Sabbath  hymns,  to  sing. 

Twas  the  darling  little  "Jennie;" 
Sweetest  of  the  household  band  ; — 

Now,  as  then,  methinks  I  hear  her 
Gaily  sing  the  "Happy  Land." 

And.  as  oft  the  gladsome  chorus, 
Memory  brings  to  me  again, 

On  the  bough  I  see  the  robin 

Hush  his  song  to  catch  the  strain. 


LITTLE  JEXXIE. 

How  she  loved  the  joyous  spring- birds- 
When  upon  the  old  elm  tree, 

Caroled  they  their  songs  of  gladness. 
She  would  clap  her  hands  in  glee. 

Now  that,  merry  voice  is  silent— 
Cold  that  cheek,  of  ruddy  hue— 

Calmly  those  dear  hands  are  folded — 
Closed,  those  laughing  eyes  of  blue. 

Yet,  perchance,  her  songs  are  swelling- 
Touched  her  harp  by  angel  hand, 

Calling  us,  Ay,  gently  calling, 
To  that  holy  "Happy  Land  !" 


THE  MARTYK. 


L^air  morning  dawned  upon  the  English  Isle, 
1  Greeting  the  lovely  landscape  with  a  smile — 
Gilding  the  hill-tops  with  its  radiant  beams 
And  pouring  golden  light  on  vales  and  streams  ; 
Yet  men  were  gazing  on  that  morning  bright, 
Whose  hearts  were  darker  than  the  deepest  night. 

A  multitude  had  gathered  on  that  morn — 
A  few  to  weep,  while  many  laughed  in  scorn ; 
There  scowling  priests  like  demons  might  be  seen, 
Awaiting  the  stem  will  of  England's  queen — 
The  cruel  Mary — 0,  that  lasting  shame 
Should  e'er  be  coupled  with  so  sweet  a  name  ! 

Most  haughty  Queen !  her  fame  from  age  to  age, 
Shall  stand  the  darkest  on  historic  page ; 
Each  reader  shudders  at  her  guilty  deeds 
And  turns  away  with  horror  as  he  reads ; 
Yes,  men  must  ever  speak  her  name  with  scorn 
And  women  blush  that  she  was  woman  born. 

21 


162  THE  MARTYR. 

But  unto  him,  a  holy  martyr  old 

As  soldiers  led  him  from  the  prison  cold, 

That  morning  seemed  like  opening  gate  of  Heaven 

For  which  he  long  and  faithfully  had  striven  ; 

And  cheered  by  holy  thoughts  his  faith  grew  strong, 

As  on  he  passed  amid  the  countless  throng. 

To  death  he  passed,  yet  heeded  he  the  poor, 
As  forth  they  came  from  many  a  cottage  door, 
With  tearful  eyes  and  voices  wild  with  grief, 
Calling  on  God  to  send  him  quick  relief. 
He  gave  them  alms,  with  cheering  words  of  love, 
And  hlessed  them  oft  with  hands  upraised  above. 

He  heard  the  shouting  of  the  rabble  wild, 
And  saw,  beside  the  stake,  the  faggots  piled ; 
He  stood  before  them  with  uncovered  brow— 
An  aged  Minister  with  beard  of  snow  ; 
Where  he,  defending  holy  Truths,  had  stood, 
He  now  must  stand  and  seal  them  with  his  blood. 

In  vain  the  scoffs  of  menials  of  the  crown- 
In  vain,  on  him,  did  priest  or  soldier  frown- 
In  vain  they  looked  to  see  his  spirit  shrink 
And  pale  and  tremble  on  death's  awful  brink ; 
He  faltered  not,  but  kneeling  on  the  sod, 
Offered  one  fervent,  holy  prayer  to  God. 


THE  MARTYR.  . 

He  knelt  him  down  to  pray  that  God  would  bless 
And  help  his  country  in  its  great  distress — 
But  hark !  a  voice  !  a  woman  shrieks  aloud, 
As  wildly  rushed  she  through  the  mighty  crowd- 
She  too  must  kneel,  by  his  dear  side  to  pray, 
Nor  threat  of  Priest  could  drive  her  thence  away. 

In  vain  the  soldiers  grinned  demoniac  mirth, 
And  urged  their  steeds  to  crush  her  to  the  earth ; 
A  woman  sad  and  pale,  yet  tirm  of  soul, 
She  heeded  not  their  words  of  stern  control, 
Her  dearest  wish — might  that  one  prayer  ascend 
To  Heaven  with  him,  her  best  and  kindest  friend ! 


Perchance  in  poverty  her  heart  had  bled, 
And  he  had  brought  her  dying  children  bread ; 
Or,  from  the  paths  of  sin  and  guilty  strife, 
His  words  had  won  her  to  a  holy  life ; — 
0,  faithful  one  !  that  prayer  so  firmly  given, 
With  soul  of  sacred  martyr  rose  to  Heaven ! 


*History  records  that  when  the  aged  Dr.  Taylor 
knelt  down  by  the  stake  to  pray,  before  his  execution 
that  a  poor  woman  came  and  knelt  by  his  side  and 
could  not  l>e  forced  away  until  the  prayer  was  fin 
ished. 


SIMPLICITY. 


There  is  a  charm  that  wins  each  heart, 
Though  not  obtained  by  foreign  art, 
'Tis  sweet,  childlike  simplicity ; — 
Christ  bade  us  wear  the  magic  charm, 
To  shield  our  souls  from  earthly  harm, 
And  guide  us  to  felicity. 

Before  this  spell  will  monarchs  cower, 
Acknowledging  the  mystic  power, 

A  gentle  heart  possesses  ; 
And  many  a  haughty  lord  of  earth, 
Will  envy  those  of  lowly  birth, 

Whom  purest  friendship  blesses. 

Proud  affectation  wakes  disgust- 
It  lives  its  day  then  sinks  to  dust, 

The  source  from  which  it  springs  ; 
But  gentleness  is  unsurpassed  — 
'Tis  loved  on  earth  and  soars  at  last. 

To  Heaven   on  seraph  wings. 


MAY  MORN. 


TTp  ye  little  ones,  'tis  May ! 
^  See,  the  sky  is  blue  and  clear  ; 
Rise  and  welcome  in  the  day, 
Brightest,  merriest  of  the  year. 

See  the  golden  sun- beams  play- 
Hear  the  lark  and  robin  sing- 
Up,  ye  children,  and  away  ! 
Gather  now  the  flowers  of  Spring. 


Hie  ye  to  the  meadow  fair, 

Bright  the  golden  cowslip  grows, 

Bluest  violets  too  are  there, 
Where  the  winding  brooklet  flows. 

Onward  pass  with  footsteps  light, 

To  yon  little  wooded  dell, 
Blooms  there  many  a  flow'ret  bright, 

Snowy  star  and  purple  bell. 


166  MAY  MORN. 

Further  still — 0  weary  not, 
Till  the  rocky  bluff  ye  rind, 

There  upon  the  rugged  spot, 
Clings  the  evergreen  entwined. 

Then  as  homeward  turn  thy  feet. 
Don't  forget  the  prairie  green, 

Flowers  of  orange  hue  you'll  meet 
Fit  to  rrown  the  proudest  queen. 

\ 

Yes,  ye  little  ones,  'tis  May ! 

See,  the  sky  is  blue  and  clear ; 
Ever  welcome  be  the  day, 

Brightest,  merriest  of  the  year. 

May  lat,  1860. 


THE  HEART'S  SORROW. 


Each  heart  it  sorrow  knows, 
Its  trials  and  its  woes, 
Yet  never  may  disclose 

Them  to  another. 
Through  ages  that  are  fled, 
Oft  human  hearts  have  bled, 
And  mourned  some  bright  hope  dead, 

Nor  told  a  brother. 


Our  lives  may  glide  along, 
Like  some  harmonious  song, 
Yet  feel  a  sense  of  wrong 

From  harsh  reply ; 
And  when  at  eve  we  roam 
To  some  loved  haunt  alone, 
We  breathe  a  plaintive  moan, 

Or  deep  drawn  sigh. 


THE  HEARTS  SORROW. 

Those  yearning  for  a  name. 
May  climb  the  "hill  of  Fame/' 
Yet  blush  in  silent  shame 

O'er  some  misdeed. 
And,  as  their  praise  is  rung, 
By  Flattery's  syren  tongue, 
The  conscious  soul  is  stung, 

And  feels  its  need. 

Should  Fortune's  hand  unfold 
Her  store  of  shining  gold, 
And  give  us  wealth  untold. 

\Ve  are  not  blest ; 
For  riches  onl>  add 

New  cares  to  those  we  had, 
And  render  still  more  sad 

Our  soul's  unrest. 


E'en  he  who  long  hath  striven 
To  live  for  God  and  Heaven, 
Finds  many  a  thorn  is  given, 

To  pierce  his  soul ; — 
The  friends,  to  him  most  dear, 
Will  turn  no  list'ning  ear. 
To  pleading  word  and  tear, 
Or  heed  control. 


THE  HEART'S  SORROW.  169 

Oh  !  why  this  wrong  we  see  ! 
Why  not  in  love  agree, 
And  kindly  sympathy, 

Till  life  is  o'er  ? 
For  Time  is  fleeting  past — 
Our  lives  are  ebbing  fast — 
Lord,  gather  us  at  last, 

To  mourn  no  more  ! 


21 


"LITTLE  DOLLIE." 

T  ittle  Dollie,  precious  Dollie, 
*-^With  such  gentle,  loving  eyes  ; 
Seems  she  like  a  gentle  angel 
Straying  out  of  Paradise. 

Joyous  hearted  little  creature. 

Free  from  sinful  guile  or  art- 
Sunbeam  in  her  father's  dwelling. 
Left  to  cheer  his  stricken  heart. 


Little  Dollie  has  no  mother. 

For  the  father  called  her  home  ; 
Placed  her  in  her  youthful  beauty, 

Where  no  tears  can  ever  come. 


But  a  guardian  angel  spirit 

Hovers  over  Dollie  now  ; 
And  we  trust  no  shame  or  sorrow 

E'er  will  shade  the  dear  child's  brow, 

Galesville,  June  26,  1861. 


MUSINGS. 


4  gain  we  hail  the  gladsome  Spring — 
•£-*-AgaiH  we  hear  the  robins  sing; 
Each  joyous  note,  in  childhood  dear, 
Is  sweetest  music  to  our  ear, 
And  bids  those  memories  to  start 
So  dear  to  every  human  heart. 
Again  we  list  those  merry  lays, 
And  live  again  our  early  days, 
When  every  thought  was  free  from  care, 
And  pure  as  our  own  mountain  air ; 
Again  we  tread  the  streamlet's  side 
And  watch  its  gently  flowing  tide, 
While  many  a  youthful  playmate's  voice 
Returning,  makes  our  hearts  rejoice; — 
Again  we  gather  violets  fair, 
And  twine  fresh  garlands  for  the  hair, 
Or  ramble  through  the  forest  glade — 
Or  rest  beneath  the  maple's  shade ; 
Then,  as  the  evening  dews  appear, 
Haste  homeward  to  the  valley  near, 
And  deem  that  life  will  ever  be 
As  full  of  joyous,  careless  glee. 


172  MUSINGS. 

All !  bright  the  picture  to  our  view. 
When  all  is  clothed  with  beauty  new. 
And  oft  the  grateful  thought  will  rise. 
Earth  is  indeed  a  paradise  ! 
But  ah  !  too  soon  there  comes  a  blight 
On  all  things  beautiful  and  bright- 
Tins  earth  an  Eden  might  have  been 
Were  hearts  but  pure  and  free  from  sin. 

Yet  as  we  greet  the  welcome  Spring. 
And  hear  again  the  warblers  sing 
May  all  life's  cares  be  cast  aside. 
And  happy  thoughts  flow  free  and  wide. 
Forgotten  be  each  wrong  and  tear — 
Kemernbered  well  the  kind  and  dear ; 
And  for  unnumbered  blessings  given. 
Upraise  our  grateful  hearts  to  Heaven. 


A  MEMORIAL. 

'rPwas  a  little  thing — a  simple  tress 
-*•  Of  bright  and  shining  hair, 
And  yet  'twas  kept  with  care  no  less 
Than  gems  which  mo  archs  wear. 

Long  years  ago  it  graced  the  head 

Of  one,  a  noble  youth, 
But  early  called,  his  spirit  fled 

To  realms  of  light  and  truth. 

That  little  lock  a  sister  clasped, 

And  kept  with  holy  love, 
Till  half  a  century  had  passed, 

Then  sped  her  soul  above. 

Yet  well  remembered  are  those  years, 
When  she  would  oft  unfold 

That  little  tress,  while  gushing  tears, 
Her  grief  too  plainly  told. 


174  A  MEMORIAL. 

And  as  her  children  gathered  there. 
She  weepingly  would  say, 

"Look  !  this  was  my  poor  brother's  hair- 
Alas  !  my  own  is  gray !" 

A  sister's  love  !  could  love  more  pure 
To  human  hearts  be  given — 

And  if  on  earth  it  thus  endure, 
What  will  it  be  in  Heaven  ! 


HUGH  MlLLEBi 

/  \  'er  the  broad  expanse  of  ocean, 
^  "Hither  borne  from  Scotland's  shore, 
Coines  the  sad—  the  painful  tidings, 
He,  the  gifted  is  no  more. 

He,  who  searched  through  fields  of  science- 
Hidden  mysteries  explored 

He  who  late  has  toiled  and  suffered— 
Long  the  loss  will  be  deplored. 

How  with  mind  and  pen  he  labored  ! 

Far  within  the  hours  of  night, 
O'er  his  pages,  through  his  window 

Faintly  gleamed  his  study  light. 

But,  at  last,  the  book  was  finished, 

And  within  it  was  enshrined 
All  the  intense  thought  and  power 

Of  a  great  and  noble  mind. 


176  HUGH  MILLER. 

Twas  his  last,  his  nohlest  effort — 
Genius  sinking  in  despair, 

Yielded  up  its  richest  treasure 
In  one  agonizing  prayer. 

Ah  !  with  dark  and  fearful  struggle 
Keason  tied  its  lofty  throne — 

Perished  he  by  deadly  weapon 
And  the  murderous  hand  his  own. 

Oft  we  read  of  soldier  dying 

On  the  field  where  glory  leads — 

But  if  man  must  fall  a  martyr, 
May  it  be  from  noble  deeds  ! 

Fch.  1st,  1867. 


A  WINTER  SCENE. 


¥  oud  and  tierce  the  storm  is  raging — 
*^Thick  and  fast  the  snow-drifts  form, 
On  a  bleak  and  lonely  prairie, 
Where  two  children  face  the  storm. 


Boldly  through  the  piercing  north  blast, 
Urge  they  on  their  little  feet, 

Hoping  soon  to  reach  the  fireside, 
And  a  parent's  smile  to  greet. 

But,  alas  !  the  storm  increases, 
Higher  piles  the  drifting  snow, 

And  their  little  limbs  grow  weary, 
Till  they  can  no  farther  go. 

Then  they  fall  in  bitter  anguish, 
Clasping  each  the  other's  form, 

And  in  vain  they  try  to  shelter 
Each  the  other  from  the  storm. 
•21 


178  A  WINTER  SCEKE. 


Then  how  tenderly  the  sister 
Tried  to  soothe  the  brother's  fears ; 

How  she  clasped  his  hands  to  warm  them. 
While  her  eves  were  dim  with  tears  ! 


On  the  morrow,  there  they  found  them 
In  a  snowy  winding  sheet — 

Found  the  sister's  warmest  garment 
Wrapt  around  her  brother's  feet. 

Thus  the  loving  heart  of  woman 

Faileth  not  in  hour  of  need ; 
Ever  watching — ever  doing 
Some  exalted,  noble  deed. 
March,  1857. 


BETTER  THAN  GOLD. 

L^ar  better  than  gold  is  the  health  God  has  given, 
L  From  Hygeia's  fountain  free-flowing  and  pure. 
How  often,  but  vainly,  the  suffering  have  striven, 
This  richest  of  blessings  with  gold  to  procure. 

And  better  than  gold  is  a  name  that's  untainted 
By  worldly  corruption  or  slanderous  tongue. 
The  beauty  of  Virtue  no  artist  has  painted, 
Enthroned  on  the  brows  of  the  aged  and  young. 


And  better  than  gold  is  the  heart's  deep  affection, 
The  purest  of  friendship  no  monach  may  buy, 
All  Solomon's  wealth  would  bring  nought  but  dejection, 
If  we  met  not  the  glance  of  a  kind  beaming  eye. 

A  treasure  is  placed,  too,  within  our  own  keeping, 
Which  riches  or  splendor  can  never  obtain — 
Tis  the  intellect  noble — the  soul  never  sleeping, 
Then  let  us  preserve  it  from  blemish  or  stain. 


A  WELCOME. 


TT'ear  you  not  that  merry  strain 
-•--I  From  the  old  oak  tree? 
It  is  Eobin  corne  again, 
"With  his  song  of  glee. 

With  a  welcome  we  will  greet 

This  old  friend  of  ours — 
Heralds  are  his  notes  most  sweet, 

Of  the  spring's  bright  flowers. 

(rone  are  now  those  wintry  days — 
Days  which  seemed  so  long ; 

Doubly  welcome  spring's  bright  rays, 
And  the  robin's  song. 

As  we  hear  him  sweetly  sing, 

May  our  grief  and  pain 
Flee  away  on  rapid  wing, 

Ne'er  to  come  again. 


PETER  PARLEY. 


(lome  gentle  Mary,  Alice  and  Kate, 
'With  Frank  and  little  Charlie, 
Let  us  twine  a  wreath  to  place  on  the  grave 
Of  dear  old  "Peter  Parley." 

"Tis  the  loveliest  month  of  spring-time  now, 

The  birds  are  merrily  singing, 
And  over  the  meadows  and  hill- sides  green, 

The  fairest  flowers  are  springing. 


Then  haste  ye  dear  ones  the  sweetest  to  bring, 
That  bloom  by  the  woodland  fountains, 

And  we'll  twine  them  in  with  the  creeping  pine 
That  grows  on  the  evergreen  mountains. 


1'KTEK  I'ARLKY. 


No  costly  exotics  are  ours  to  give. 
And  humble  our  offerings  ever ; 

Yet  loved  he  the  lowly  as  well  as  the  great. 
With  a  fervor  death  only  could  sever. 


We  know  his  kind  spirit  would  willingly  bless 
Could  it  see  the  affection  we  cherish, — 

The  good  he  has  wrought —  the  happiness  given, 
From  memory  never  will  perish. 


IN  THE  SUNSHINE. 


II 7  hen  we  see  the  children  play, 
*  *  In  the  sunshine  of  the  May, 
We  look  upon  their  smiling  faces 
And  mark  their  little  winning  graces ; 
Ah  !  then  we  think  how  happv  they, 
Could  childhood's  sunshine  always  stay. 


When  fair,  graceful  forms  we  see, 
In  life's  youthful  sunshine  free, 
We  mark  their  soul-lit  sparkling  eyes, 
And  watch  their  "airy  castles"  rise ; 
Then  memory  brings  us  back  the  past ; 
We  know  youth's  sunshine  cannot  last. 

We  see  the  old  with  silvery  hair, 
And  mark  the  look  of  peace  they  wear, 
For  those,  whose  lives  are  good  and  pure, 
Some  gleams  of  light  are  ever  sure ; 
Yes,  age  has,  beaming  from  above, 
The  brightest  sunshine  of  God's  love. 


MEMORIES. 


In  a  distant  quiet  valley 

Of  my  own  Green  Mountain  land. 
Stands  a  little  rustic  cottage, 

Bv  the  western  breezes  fanned. 


Near  the  door  way  ran  a  brooklet, 

With  its  tiny  waterfall ; 
And  a  broad  and  leafy  shade  tree, 

Spread  aloft  its  branches  tall. 

There  the  violets  were  freshest, 
In  the  early  days  of  spring ; 

And  the  robin's  song  was  clearest, 
Making  all  the  valley  ring. 


MEMORIES.  185 

And  when  came  the  sultry  summer 

Hid  from  every  scorching  ray, 
Dashed  the  merry  cascade,  spreading 

All  around  its  cooling  spray. 

And  a  smoothly  tiowing  river 

Glistened  in  the  sunlight  near, 
Where  stood  rows  of  elms  and  maples, 

Mirrored  in  its  waters  clear. 


There  in  golden  days  of  autumn, 
All  along  its  winding  shore, 

Hung  the  purple  grapes  in  clusters, 
And  the  butternut's  rich  store. 


There  we  gathered  nuts  in  plenty, 

For  the  winter  evenings  long ; 
Where  would  mingle  round  the  hearth-stone, 

Voices  gay  with  mirth  and  song. 


Years  have  tied  since  youth's  bright  spring-time- 
Years  of  mingled  joy  and  woe, 

Yet  is  memory  ever  painting 
Pictures  of  the  "Long  ago." 
28 


18(1  MEMORIES. 

Though  no  more  beside  that  river. 
With  dear  friends  I  now  may  rove, 

Or  at  evening  in  that  cottage, 
Know  a  parent's  care  and  love  ; 

Still  the  music  of  their  voices, 
Sweetly  yet  in  memory  thrills  ;— 

And,  I'm  thinking,  often  thinking, 
Of  that  vale  among  the  hills. 

Wis.  Ma  if  30 


UPWARD. 


trpward  flies  the  humble  sparrow 
From  his  lowly,  quiet  nest, 
Speeding  onward  like  ail  arrow- 
Joy  and  freedom  thrill  his  breast. 

Upward  soars  the  haughty  eagle 
Onward,  heavenward  is  his  flight, 

Though  his  eyrie,  proud  and  regal, 
Sits  upon  the  cliff's  bold  height. 

So  should  man  soar  upward  ever, 
In  his  aspirations  proud, 

Rising,  with  each  stern  endeavor, 
Far  above  the  storm  and  cloud. 


Though  his  sphere  on  earth  is  lowly- 
Though  rude  poverty  may  chill, 

And  reward  may  come  but  slowly, 
Be  his  motto,  "Upward"  still. 


li'WAKD. 


But  if  high  his  name  is  gleaming 
On  the  glowing  scroll  of  fame. 

Pause  not  then  in  idle  dreaming — 
Be  the  watchword  still  the  same. 


Thus  should  all  be  upward  tending, 
Nerved  by  love  of  Truth  and  Bight, 

In  progressive  faith  ascending 
To  the  fount  of  Life  and  Light. 


IN  MEMOBIAM. 

pvear  George,*  our  cousin  and  friend, 
*-*  The  years  roll  on,  sadly  on — 
You  come  not  again  with  your  kindly  words 
Your  joys  with  our  own  to  blend. 


Springs  come  with  their  violets  blue 

Bringing  many  a  joy, 
The  perfumed  breezes  and  sweet  singing  birds, 

But  never  a  friend  so  true. 


And  summers  sweep  over  our  land 

Bearing  beautiful  things — 
The  fair  roses  bloom  and  earth  would  seem  bright, 

Were  vou  but  one  of  our  band. 


*Dr.  Geo.   C.  Slayton. 


190  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Fair  autumns   come  too,  with  rich  store 

Of  brown  nuts  and  fair  fruit, 
The  maple  leaves  crimson,  the  oaks  turn  brown, 

But  vou  can  see  them  no  more. 


The  winters  seem  chilling  and  drear, 
Rude  winds  awraken  our  grief — 

In  winter  you  left  us,  0,  kindest  of  friends, 
Be  hallowed  the  day  and  the  year. 


REMEMBRANCE, 


y  dear,  beloved  mother  died 
Just  twenty  years  ago, 
And  now  how  vividly  comes  back 
Remembrance  of  that  woe, — 


I  see  again  the  mourning  group — 
I  hear  their  smothered  sighs, 

And  watch  the  light  of  life  fade  out 
From  her  dear,  loving  eyes. 

But  twenty  summers  with  their  bloom, 
The  earth  hath  freshly  kept ; 

And  twenty  winters  with  their  storms, 
Above  her  grave  have  swept. 


And,  one  by  one,  the  friends  she  loved, 
And  cherished  year  by  year, 

Have  silently  been  borne  to  rest 
Within  the  churchyard  near. 


19*2  REMEMBRANCE. 

Our  aged  father  was  the  first 
That  by  her  side  was  laid, 

And  then  a  grandchild  was  the  next- 
The  gentle  Adelaide. 

Our  brother,  Hiram,  followed  soon, 
While  grief  our  hearts  oppressed  ; 

Then  sister  Angeline  was  called 
To  dwell  among  the  blessed. 

Brave  Edwin  was  the  next  they  bore 
From  Richmond's  bloody  field, 

And  dear  Eliza's  gentle  eyes 
Too  soon  in  death  were  sealed. 


And  "darling  Minnie"  now  is  there  ; 

Alas  !  the  hopes — the  tears — 
The  blighted  joys  that  withered  lie 

Within  these  twenty  years  ! 
Feb.  24,  1868. 


THANKSGIVING. 


k*  A\7e  £*ve  ^ee  thanks,  our  Father  good, 

»  '  For  all  Thy  tender  care  !" 
Thus  reverently  the  preacher  said, 
And  eloquent  his  prayer. 

The  melting  words  fell  on  each  heart 

Like  drops  of  holy  dew, 
Ke  vivifying  every  part 

And  strengthening  it  anew. 

Each  careworn  face  more  heavenly  seemed— 

More  solemn  were  the  gay, 
A  nd  even  happy  childhood  wore 

A  thoughtful  look  that  day. 

24 


194  THANKSGIVING. 


And  well  it  might,  for  war's  dire  cloud 
Hung  dark  o'er  hill  and  plain  ; 

And  on  each  breeze  a  wail  was  home 
For  sons  and  brothers  slain. 


Our  noble  dead  !  they  faltered  not, 

When  duty  onward  led  ; 
And  consecrated  is  the  spot, 

Whereon  each  patriot  bled. 

Ah  !  many  a  table  amply  stored, 

Lacked  one  beloved  guest, 
And  many  a  fervent  prayer  was  breathed 

From  the  parental  breast. 

As  sisters  saw  the  vacant  seat, 

They  mournfully  would  say, 
"0  that  our  brothers  now  were  here, 

To  meet  with  us  to-day  !" 


Fair  maidens  blushed  when  one  dear  name, 
'  Recalled  fond  hopes  and  fears  ; 
And  listened  to  the  deeds  of  fame, 
With  mingled  smiles  and  tears. 


THANKSGIVING.  195 

And  children  missed  their  father's  smile, 

His  name  they  oft  would  speak. 
And  sadly  mark  the  tears  that  stained 

Their  gentle  mother's  cheek. 

Ah,  yes !  our  father  chasteneth. 

But  not  with  willing  hand — 
Have  trusting  faith  ye  sorrowing  ones, 

He  yet  will  bless  our  land. 

Nor.  1861. 


MORE  BOYS  FOE  THE  WAR. 


^I/Tore  boys  for  the  war — ay,  still  they  are  going. 
-JJ-The  young  and  the  valiant — the  good  and  the  true  ' 
Our  hearts  beat  with  pride,  though  our  tears  were 

fast  flowiug 
When  we  saw  our  brave  boys  in  their  new  suits  of 

blue. 


Bright  shone  the  sun  on  that  rnorn  when  they  started, 
While  fair  lay  the  earth  in  its  beauty  to  view  ; 

And  warm  was  the  clasp  of  each  hand  as  we  parted. 
And  fervent  our  prayers  for  the  dear  boys  in  blue. 


GRATING  CORN. 

TTave  you  heard  how  Morgan's  forces 
-^Lately  left  the  Cumberland, 
Where  against  the  Southern  rebels, 
Vainly  they  had  hoped  to  stand '? 

But  a  foe  more  dire  than  traitors, 
Menanced  them  on  every  side, — 

With  pale  want  and  cruel  famine 
They  no  longer  could  abide. 

Long  and  drear  the  march  before  them- 
Rough  and  difficult  the  way. 

With  guerrilla  bands  awaiting, 
To  attack  them  night  and  day. 

But  they  boldly  faced  each  danger — 

N  Toiling,  suffering  as  they  marched, — 
Weary,  fainting  oft  with  hunger, 

And  witli  thirst  their  lips  oft  parched. 


198  GRATING  CORN. 

When  each  day's  drear  march  was  ended, 
With  tired  limbs  and  garments  torn, 

You  might  see  each  gallant  soldier, 
For  his  supper,  grating  corn. 

Ah  !  how  oft  fair  scenes  of  plenty 
Rose  before  the  mental  sight ; 

And  sweet  dreams  of  home  and  kindred, 
Thrilled  each  soldier's  breast  at  night. 

Still  they  toiled  and  nobly  suffered — 
Still  they  grated  golden  corn  ; 

And  at  night  still  dreamed  of  dear  ones- 
Faced  new  dangers  on  each  morn  : 

Till  at  last  the  march  was  finished, 
All  its  keenest  sufferings  o'er, — 

In  a  Northern  land  of  plenty 
They  shall  grate  their  corn  no  more. 

Ay,  this  war  hath  made  true   heroes, 
And  we  think  of  them  with  pride, 

While  we  mourn  with  deepest  sorrow, 

Tho>e  who  have  so  nobly  died. 
Oct.  1862. 


"THE  COMING  MAN." 

A  Inch  has  been  said  of  late,  of  him, 
A'*  The  long  sought  "Coming  man," 
Whose  lofty  intellect  is  formed 
On  nature's  noblest  plan. 

Whose  loyal  heart  is  true  and  good  — 
Whose  morals  are  unstained — 

Who  loves  his  country  more  than  all 
The  wealth  therein  contained. 

How  long  on  bright  Potomac's  banks 
They've  longed  to  shout  his  name, 

And  place  it  witti  Napoleon's, 
Upon  the  scroll  of  fame. 

But  as  each  hero  new,  essayed 
To  lead  them  to  the  fight, 

Sure  disappointment  crowned  the  day- 
He  had  not  led  aright. 


200  THE  COMING  MAN. 


But  not  the  warlike  hosts  alone 
That  need  the  "Coming  man;" 

The  moral  world  would  gladly  hail 
A  leader  in  the  van, 


Whose  voice  for  right,  with  eloquence, 
In  clearest  tone  rings  out — 

Whose  claim  to  perfect  "Manliness" 
IP.  placed  beyond  a  doubt. 

Oh,  never  waited  nobler  hosts, 

Or  suffered  nobler  cause  ; 
For  one  to  lead  to  victory, 

And  vindicate  God's  laws  ! 


Ay,  hope  ye  for  our  country  dear— 

Ye  patient  hearts,  ye  can, 
And  pray  that  God  will  quickly  bless 

And  send  the  "Coming  man  !" 
Dec.  1863. 


THE  SOLDIERS  OF  TBEMPEALEAU  COUNTY. 


4    tribute  to  our  soldiers  brave, 
x  *  Wherever  they  may  be  ; 
Who  does  not  breathe  a  fervent  prayer 
For  their  prosperity ! 

They  left  the  love  and  joy  of  home, 
With  manly  hearts  and  true — 

A  blessing  and  an  earnest  prayer 
For  all  the  "boys  in  blue." 

O'er  many  lields  their  banners  bright, 
Were  seen  to  proudly  gleam, 

From  Mississippi's  noble  banks 
To  fair   Potomac's  stream — 


Amid  brave  Sherman's  gallant  band, 
Their  war-stained  flags  waved  free — 

With  him  our  soldiers  bravely  marched, 
To  glorious  victory. 
25 


2O2  SOLDIERS  OF  TREMPEALEAU  COUNTY. 

How  oft  would  loyal  hearts  exult 

And  throb  with  wildest  joy, 
While  hearing  of  the  valiant  deeds 

Of  each  loved  soldier  boy ; 
And  still  we  pray  that  fair  success, 

And  honors  may  attend 
The  steps  of  those  returning  home, 

To  greet  each  cherished  friend. 

Yet  while  we  think  exult  ingly, 
Of  those  still  "marching  on," 

And  glory  in  each  victory, 
By  valor  proudly  won, 

We'll  not  forget  the  noble  dead, 
But  speak  their  names  with  pride, 

Though  bitter  are  the  tears  we  shed- 
Have  they  not  nobly  died  ! 

Ah  !  spirit  voices  sweetly  speak, 

Of  brave  young  Gardner  tell, 
And  where  on  Corinth's  bloody  field, 

Heroic  Mason  fell — 
And  how,  in  front  of  Petersburg, 

The  field  was  wet  with  gore, 
Of  Grant  and  Ball  and  Skilton  too, 

With  many,  many  more. 


SOLDIERS  OF  TREMPEALEAU  COUNTY.  203 

But  not  alone  on  battle  field, 

Struck  down  by  shot  and  shell, 
But  oft  by  sad  and  dire  disease, 

Full  many  a  hero  fell ; 
Yet  not  less  bright  the  honor  earned, 

Engraved  is  each  dear  name 
Of  Thompson,  Cram,  and  Btuui,  and  King, 
Upon  the  scroll  of  Fame. 

Not  only  these,  but  other  names 

Shall  all  recorded  stand, 
Upon  our  bright  historic  page, 

A  valiant,  noble  band. 
Yes,  blessings  on  our  soldiers  brave, 

Wherever  they  may  be — 
Who  does  not  breathe  a  fervent  prayer 

For  their  prosperity. 

Galesi'ille  Wis. 


THE  RECORD. 

4  h  !  there  it  stands — the  record  true, 
"-  "--Of  all  our  soldier  dead ; 
There  it  shall  stand  to  meet  our  view 
When  future  years  have  fled. 

Yet  now,  0  lay  it  gently  by  ! 

We  cannot  read  it  o'er : 
Too  many  tears  bedim  the  eye — 

Too  many  hearts  are  sore. 

We  cannot  bear  to  think  that  those 
Who  loved  their  country  well, 

And  bravely  met  its  traitor  foes, 
Should  die  by  ball  and  shell. 

We  cannot  even  bear  to  hear 
How  fever  smote  them  down, 

Ere  they  had  won  the  laurels  dear 
Of  victory  and  renown. 


THE  RECORD.  205 

We  weep  at  thought  of  widows'  woe — 

Of  mothers'  holy  tears — 
Of  orphans'  cry — of  homes  laid  low 

And  desolate  for  years. 

Yes,  lay  the  noble  record  by, 

Till  time  our  tears  has  dried  ; 
And  then,  with  kindling,  flashing  eye, 

We'll  point  to  it  with  pride. 

And  bid  our  children  read  it  o'er 

And  honor  those  who  bled ; 
And  love  our  country  all  the  more 

In  memory  of  its  dead. 

July  llth,  18M. 


COMING  WEST. 

the  grand  majestic  mountains, 
Where  the  storm-cloud  loves  to  rest- 
From  the  deep,  delightful  valleys, 
They  are  coming,  coming  West. 

From  those  eastern  towns  and  cities, 

Come  forth  earnest,  noble  men- 
Men  of  labor — men  of  learning, 
That  can  guide  the  plow  or  pen. 

Not  alone  from  dear  New  England, 
But  from  other  lands  they  come, 

O'er  the  broad  Atlantic's  billows, 
Here  to  find  a  peaceful  home. 

From  green  Erin,  and  brave  Scotland- 
From  old  England's  pleasant  shore, 

And  from  Germany  and  Norway, 
There  are  thousands  coming  o'er. 


COMING  WEST.  '207 


They  are  leaving  home  and  country, 
And  the  friends  they  love  the  best — 

They  are  seeking  wealth  and  freedom, 
And  shall  find  them  in  the  West. 

We  extend  a  hearty  welcome 
To  each  brave,  industrious  hand ; 

He,  whose  heart  is  true  and  honest, 
Is  right  worthy  of  our  land. 

With  united,  true  devotion, 
Let  us  work  with  earnest  wills ; 

All  along  our  own  broad  prairies 
And  among  our  vales  and  hills ; 

We  will  build  fair  towns  and  cities, 
Halls  of  wisdom — works  of  art- 
Colleges  and  schools  and  churches, 
That  shall  honor  mind  and  heart. 

Here  shall  dwell  a  mighty  people, 

Poets,  scholars,  world  renowned ; 
Building  up  a  vast  Republic, 

With  a  Godlike  glory  crowned. 
Galesuille.  Wis.,  Xor.  1870. 


ERRATA. 


PAGE.       LINE, 

20        4th.,  read  kelpies  for  'elpies.' 

58       16th.,  read  Where  for  'There.' 

75        8th.,  read  sing  for  'brings.' 

95  3rd.,  read  brother  for  'other.' 
114  2d.,  read  Whose  for  'Those.' 
133,  near  the  bottom  of  page  read  thus  : 

The  thunder  rolled  ;  the  lightning's  glare 
Showed  dimly  through  the  freshened  air. 
The  wind  had  ceased  and  overhead 
The  heavens  with  beauteous  stars  were  spread. 

Page  140,  first  line,  omit  'to.' 


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